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“THE UVINO IMAGE OF HER LOST MARIANNE I ’’-(Page 41.)
’Ljl
Lot Leslie’s Folks
And their queer Adventures among
the French and Indians.
A. D. 1755-1,763.
BY^
Eleanor C. Donnelly.
PHILADELPHIA :
H. L. Kilner & Co.,
PUBLISHERS.
TWO COPIES RECEIVED.
library of Congress
Office 0 f the
D£0121B99
Register of CopyrIghtSi
48566
Copyright, 1899, by H. L. Kilner & Co.
SECOND COPY.
'o I
THIS LITTLE BOOK IS DEDICATED
BY ITS AUTHOR
TO HER GOOD FRIENDS
MR. AND MRS. CHARLES J. O’MALLEY,
OF Louisville, Kentucky,
AS A TRIBUTE OF HER ESTEEM FOR
THAT GIFTED COUPLE,
WHO, (LIKE THE BROWNINGS), ARE IDEALLY UNITED IN THEIR LIT-
ERARY LABORS, AS IN THEIR LIFE OF WEDDED LOVE.
CONTENTS.
CHAP. PAGE
I. The Surprise at the Fort 7
II. Timothy and Willy are ADO^>tED 19
III. Love Finds a Way, and — a Mother 30
IV. An Indian Princess and Her Handmaidens . . 44
V. The Yankee Woman’s Message 53
VI. Marianne St. Ange . 61
VII. The Attack on the Blockhouse 75
yill. What Happened at Three Rivers 91
IX. The Mission of the Assumption no
X. Strangers from the Forest 127
XI. The Face at the Window . . . 145
XII. A Fatal Game of Ball 163
XIII. In the Shadow of Death — An Unexpected
Meeting 177
XIV. The Secret OF THE Scales, AND What Came OF It . 190
XV. A Discovery and a Dilemma 206
XVI. In the Double House at Philadelphia 223
5
/
i
I
X
Lot Leslie’s Folks.
OHAPTEE I.
THE SURPRISE AT THE FORT.
The place where this strange old story had its
beginning was Swan Island, on the coast of
Maine, not far from the mouth of the Kennebec
river.
There, in the year 1755, stood a good-sized
fort, well-manned with English soldiers, to pro-
tect the people against the Indians.
The building was of stout wood ; and around
it, stretched, far and wide, a close fence of high,
strong stakes or palisades, with a big gate in the
middle, heavily barred and bolted.
One by one, the island-houses had been builded
within this fence, and as near as might be, to the
fort.
The nighest to it was the cabin of old Captain
James Wilson, who had fought at the taking of
Cape Breton, ten years before.
One of his daughters had married a farmer
from the mainland, named Lot Leslie ; but, as
7
8
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
Grandmother Wilson was wasting away in dys-
pepsia, and the captain’s sight beginning to fail,
Lot Leslie and his folks had come to live at the
homestead on Swan Island: and took care of
things for the old people.
There were four Leslie children. Faith and
Hope, the two elder girls, aged, the one, twelve,
and the other, nine years ; Wilson, the only boy,
just turned eight ; and little Love, the baby of
three summers.
All were nice, healthy, merry children, Avith
the bloom and freshness of the salt winds in
their faces. The boy and the baby-girl resem-
bled their good-looking mother. Wilson gave
promise of being, some day, a handsome felloAv ;
but little Love Avas already a real beauty, and
the pet of the household.
She Avas very plump, and of small bones. Her
eyes Avere large, black and soft as velvet, Avith
long, dark, fringy lashes. Her dimpled cheeks
Avere like roses in the milk of her snoAvy skin ;
and her head Avas covered Avith a silken mass of
curls of that deep, rich red, sometimes seen in old
pictures by Titian.
This union of black eyes with red hair and
a dazzling complexion Avas the special charm of
Mistress Lot Leslie. She was, also, Avhat Joe
Gargery has called, a fine figger of a Avoman ” ;
and it Avas ahvays a marvel to the gossips of
THE SURPRISE AT THE FORT.
9
Swan Island how so handsome a girl as Hope
Wilson could have throw’d herself away,” as
they termed it, ‘^on sich a humly, no account,
insignif’cant creetur as Lot Leslie.”
But love, as everybody ought to know, is
blind ; and Mistress Lot dearly loved her plain
little husband, finding in him many charming
qualities which her neighbors failed to see.
She valued highly his dog-like devotedness to
herself and children ; and she prized above all,
his manly courage. For, small and ugly as he
was, the little man was as brave as a lion.
Although they foresaw it not, pressing need
there was soon to be for all of Lot’s grit and gal-
lantry.
In the midsummer of 1755, some runners from
the fort brought back word that Indians had
been seen skulking around the beach, many of
them painted black.
How, in .those days, when Indians painted
themselves black, by means of charcoal and
grease, the islanders knew it to be a sure sign of
war.
So, the commander of the fort gave orders to
the soldiers to look well their guns ; and enjoined
upon all within the enclosure, to see to it that no
gate or door be left open to the prowling sav-
ages.
In spite of these strict orders, however, one
10
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
beautiful July morning, a little after daybreak,
two disobedient boys, sons of a good-for-nothing
fisherman, sneaked out of the garrison, to go
black-berrying, and left the gate open behind
them.
The watchful Indians were close at hand, lying
fiat upon their faces. They sprang upon the
boys, like crouching panthers, and killed them so
quickly with their hatchets, that the hapless lit-
tle fellows had not time even to cry aloud.
In the space of ten minutes, nearly a hundred
Indians had crept silently through the gate, and
swarmed into the enclosure.
They were dreadful to behold — those noiseless,
creeping savages, with their fluttering scalp-
locks, their almost naked, dark bodies, and their
brown faces, either fierce or cunning, streaked up
and down with black, red, yellow, or green paint.
Each carried a gun or hatchet ; and long, sharp
knives glittered in their belts.
Just as the sun came up, like a ball of fire, out
of the sea, the Indians burst upon the fort with a
hideous yell that wakened all the island-sleepers.
Then, might be seen the poor commander in his
night-shirt, rallying his frightened forces, and
detailing the men who were to climb up to the
lookout on the roof, where the fire-arrows were
already beginning to fall.
The shingles had been covered, a few days be-
THE SURPRISE AT THE FORT.
11
fore, with damp turf ; but, alas ! the hot J uly
sun had baked it hard and dry, and through its
cracks, the sparks found space to land.
They had scarcely smelled the smoke of the
burning roof, before the noise of hatchets against
the weakest door of the fort gave the garrison to
know that their time was short.
A crash, a mad rush inwards of dark, shrieking
demons — and the enemy was on them, face to
face !
The awful end had come.
The soldiers fought like brave men ; but, thus
surprised and only half-awake, what could a few
white men do against so many howling, blood-
thirsty savages ?
The fort soon became a scene of horror.
The dead and the dying lay about on all sides ;
but, without stopping to scalp their victims, the
Indians hurried to old Wilson’s cabin, to settle a
long-standing grudge against the captain.
The old man and his wife, coming out to meet
them with bribes, pleaded in vain for mercy.
Thus do we settle our score ! ” cried the In-
dians, in their own tongue, striking at them with
knives dripping with blood ; and the old couple,
gashed and bleeding, their grey hair dabbled in
gore, were left, stretched lifeless, across their own
doorsill.
The savages leaped over their bodies, and
12
LOT Leslie’s folks.
rushed indoors, shouting and gibbering like ma-
niacs.
At the head of the narrow staircase, Lot
Leslie met the Indians with his rifle, and fired
upon them.
He knew that Mistress Leslie and her four chil-
dren, with Prudence Skillet, the hired woman,
were all crying, and clinging to each other over
in the little front bedroom.
Ilis young rnan-of-all-work, Timothy Grind-
stone, armed with an axe, stood bravely at
Leslie’s side, and, with him, tried to make fight
against the redskins. But they prevailed nothing.
Strange to say, the savages did not try to kill
the two men who were wholly in their power ;
but, dragging out the women and children from
the bedroom, they bound fast the party of
seven, and hurried them down to the beach.
There, they left them, under guard of an Indian
or two. Then, tearing back to the fort, they
first ransacked the premises, and all the near-by
houses, destroying their furniture: scalped the
wounded, mutilated the dead, and ended by car-
rying off all the money and valuables they could
lay hands on.
Lastly, they set fire to Captain Wilson’s cabin ;
and, in the red light of the blazing buildings,
went dancing and shrieking, like so many de-
mons, back to their captives on the beach.
THE SURPRISE AT THE FORT.
13
Alas ! with what fear and fright did those
poor souls behold the blood-stained wretches
rushing down upon them !
They fully expected to be killed and scalped
upon the spot ; and, although they had never in
their lives been members of any church — all, (ex-
cept, perhaps, the baby), prayed fervently to God
for help.
Little did they dream, in that hour of darkest
trial, how wonderfully, how blessedlj^, their good
Father in heaven would, one day, answer their
prayer ! If they could have foreseen it, they
might have cried out, then and there, in the
words of our Lord to Zaccheus : “ This day is
salvation come to this house !”
Blinded now, however, to all the heavenly
blessings of the future, poor ' Mistress Leslie sat
upon a rock on the sands — her arms bound with
cords, and the big tears running down her comely
face.
She still seemed to see her murdered father
and mother, covered with wounds and blood,
ing stark and cold, across the doorsill of the dear
old home. She had been forced to step upon her
mother’s breast, as the savages dragged her over
the threshold.
She felt now as if her heart would burst, when
her baby, her little Love, crept to her feet, and
laid her pretty head upon her lap. She could
14 LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
not even clasp the darling to her bosom, because
of her pinioned arms.
Little Wilson pressed close to his father’s side;
while Faith and Hope, white as death, and half-
fainting from fright, huddled against Prudence
and Timothy.
Lot Leslie made use of a few moments of quiet,
before the main body of Indians returned from
the burning fort, to speak some words of warn-
ing to his wife and family.
He had lived for many years near the Indian
settlements, and he knew a good deal about the
ways and dispositions of the savages.
‘‘ No matter what you see,” he now said to the
dear, helpless ones around him ; “ no matter
what the Indians may do to you to-day, or at any
other time, keep very still — hear it all in silence !
Cry out, or make a fuss, and the redskins’ll either
kill you at once, or put you to a slow torture.”
O my baby ! my little Love ! ” whispered
Mistress Leslie with a great sob : “ who can keep
yon from crying out ? little, tender thing that
you are ! ”
The Lord’s hand is over the innocent, ma’am,”
said Prudence Skillet, whose early bringing-up
had been among the Puritans, and who was fond
of quoting Scripture. Eemember, David said
in the Psalms : ‘ He made them also to be pitied
of all those that carried them away captive.’ ”
THE SURPRISE AT THE FORT.
15
Prudence, old girl,” growled the man Timo-
thy : you’ll not find any pity among these red-
skinned imps of Satan. You may make up your
mind to that. Hark to them ! Here they come,
(the Lord be merciful to us !) howling and leaping
like furies out of the hot place ! ”
It was a horrid sight, indeed, on a blessed sum-
mer morning, when the sea was like a quiet lake,
and all in nature was so beautifi^l, peaceful and
sunny — that great throng of hideous savages
dancing along the sands, shrieking, and waving
over their heads their bloody hatchets.
They ran straight to the poor prisoners, and
shook their knives and tomahawks in their faces ;
but, seeing that they all sat or stood, white and
still as statues of stone, (even little Love hiding
her eyes on her mother’s knee, without a sound)
they did them, at that time, no further harm.
The chief of the band, Haukimah, gave some
orders to one or two of the savages. These hur-
ried at once to a little cove on the east coast of
the island.
They were lost to sight for a few moments ;
and when next they were seen, it was in one of
their Indian canoes, now being rowed along the
shore from the spot where, all the past night,
they had been in hiding.
There were eight or ten of these boats, great
and small. They were rowed by the Indian
16
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
squaws in sacks of coarse, gaudy calico — their
bare arms, strong and brown, seeming well used
to the oars.
Again, Haukimah gave his orders.
Timothy Grindstone and little Wilson Leslie
were seized by four of the Indians, and dragged
into one of the smaller canoes, which immedi- ^
ately put off from the shore.
Next, the maid Prudence, with the little girls,
Faith and Hope, were stowed among a crowd of
savages in a big canoe ; and, after the other boats
had all been filled up with Indians, some of them
guarding Lot and his wife in the chief’s canoe —
an old squaw was ordered out from the last boat.
Haukimah beckoned her to him with his hatchet,
calling her N'^-o-hum^ or Grandmother.
She was ugly and dark. Her face was a net-
work of wrinkles, and the loose flesh hung in a
double dewlap under her chin. Her cotton sack
and petticoat were very dirty; but her expres-
sion was mild and peaceful.
A^-ioash-ish ! ” grunted the chief ; and Lot
Leslie had just remembered that the word was
Indian for baby ” — when Haukimah caught up
little Love from the sands (where she had been
left to creep about alone), and tossed her into
N’-o-kum’s withered arms.
Another word was spoken by the chief to the
old crone. It was “ Attawom ; ” but it was
THE SURPRISE AT THE FORT.
17
many a long and weary day before the captives
of Swan Island came to understand what “
meant in English.
Little Love was a fearless, sociable child.
Added to which, she was now heavy with sleep,
having been roused so early from her crib, that
dreadful day. So, when N’-o-kum clasped her
closely in her arms, and leaped with her into the
last canoe that quitted the island, she cuddled
down in the old woman’s embrace, and slept
quietly against her dirty bosom.
Mistress Leslie, with her husband, in the fore-
most boat, was being carried rapidly away from
all they loved on earth.
The lurid glow of their blazing home was red-
dening the sky; and, looking back, poor Mrs.
Lot saw, with anguish, her precious baby in the
arms of that filthy savage.
How bright, how dear to her, was the little
head that slept upon that ugly pillow !
A line from the Bible, (which she had not read
for years), came back to her mind.
It was about some other Mother, some great
Woman of Israel, but she could not remember
whom.
“ — And thine own soul a sword shall jpierce^'^
— it had read.
She gave a faint cry of agony ; and instantly,
an Indian struck her sharply across the mouth.
18
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
Leaning against her unhappy husband’s shoul-
der, the poor mother fainted in silence. A swoon
so like death, that Lot shuddered as he felt her
cold, clammy cheek against his own.
The sword of mortal anguish had pierced her
soul.
CHAPTER 11.
TIMOTHY AND WILLY* AEE ADOPTED.
By sea and by land, through thick woods and
over rough mountains, Timothy Grindstone and
little Wilson Leslie were hurried by their Indian
masters, down to the English settlements in
Pennsylvania.
It was just after General Braddock’s bloody
defeat at Fort du Quesne. The savages, mad
with victory, were rushing from one farm to an-
other, robbing and murdering the settlers with
the fury of fiends.
Many of these, whom Timothy and Wilson met
upon the road, were dressed in the uniforms of
the British officers, slaughtered by them and
stripped upon the field. Scarlet coats and
breeches, laced hats, sashes, and half-moons,
(such as the British then wore) made these red
rascals look to be such scarecrows — the military
dress becoming them far less than their native
blankets and plumes — that Grindstone and the
boy were often moved to laugh, sad and fearful
enough, though they were, at heart.
The news of Braddock’s defeat, communicated
by these grotesque stragglers, must have changed
19
20
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
the plans of the Swan Island savages ; for, in-
stead of pushing straight on to Philadelphia,
they soon turned upon their tracks and, with
their captives, made for the north again.
Launching their canoe upon the Alleghany
river, they rowed Timothy and Wilson up to an
Indian town on the south bank of the stream,
some forty miles above Fort du Quesne.
When they landed at this point, the captives
Avere astonished to see great numbers of strange
Indians running toward them, whooping, and
Avildly waving their arms.
These were stripped naked, except for a cloth
about their loins, and Avere painted in a horrid
fashion in staring colors of brightest red, blue,
yelloAV, and brown.
They came on in irregular swarms, like great,
gaudy butterflies, until they dreAv closer to Grind-
stone and the boy. Then, they formed them-
selves into tAvo long lines, facing each other,
about a couple of yards apart.
While Timothy Avas regarding this movement
Avith some concern, an Indian who spoke a little
English, told him that he and the boy were ex-
pected to run betAveen these ranks to the village
beyond.
He further said that the strange Indians Avould
flog them all the Ava}^ ; and that the quicker they
ran, the better, as they Avould cease to strike
TIMOTHY AND WILLY ARE ADOPTED. 21
them whenever they reached the other end of
the line.
Now, Grindstone was a' well-built man of
twenty-live, or thereabouts, — wiry and muscular,
lie was an expert at high jumping and foot-rac-
ing; and had taught little Wilson many wonder-
ful tricks at the same. The boy had been trained
by him to clear with ease the high pickets of the
fort at Swan Island, to the admiration of soldiers
and officers alike, and could leap to extraordinary
heights, like a young kangaroo.
“Willy!” whispered Timothy, at that critical
moment : “ we’ve got to run for our lives. Make
the best of your legs, my lad, and astonish the
redskins ! ”
And with that, a couple of savages struck them
a rousing blow in the back, and away down the
ranks, they flew — every sannup and squaw in the
double file shrieking and cracking at them, as
they ran. But, never were there seen in those
parts such a pair of white runners as Timothy
and little Will.
They sped between the blows of their tor-
menters, like creatures of the wind. Now, dodg-
ing sticks, knives, and hatchets ; again, leaping
directly over the outstretched arm of some
screaming squaw, Timothy led the way, and lit-
tle Willy bravely followed.
The boy was as plucky as the man. His
22
LOT LESLIE'S FOLKS.
pretty head was lifted, his fine eyes shone like
stars.
Once, toward the end of the dreadful race.
Grindstone looking back wildly over his shoul-
der, (blood and sweat streaming down his
cheeks), saw that his little mate was sorely beset
by the women and children of the tribe.
They, whose hearts should have been gentler
and more merciful than the men’s, were cruel
and fierce as wolves.
They had left the tracks of their fists and
finger-nails upon Willy’s bonny little face.
It was bruised and bleeding — and the poor
child, not much more than a baby !
‘‘ Jump for it, my boy ! ” panted Timothy as he
ran, sweating at every pore : “ Give the big
jump I taught you on the island. It’s only a few
steps further ; jump for my back, and I’ll carry
you safe to the end ! ”
And behold ! to the surprise and delight of the
savages, the plucky little fellow, drawing back a
pace or two, made a sudden dart forward, and
leaping into the air, cleared the space between
him and his friend, and landed safely astride of
Timothy’s stout shoulders.
Just as he clasped him tightly about the neck,
half-crying, half-laughing with the strain. Grind-
stone reached the first of the wigwams that
marked the outskirts of the Indian settlement.
TIMOTHY AND WILLY AKE ADOPTEE. 23
The savages burst into a great cheer.
The race was over. The trial was past.
Timothy and the boy, breathless and exhausted
as they were, had won the admiration and re-
spect of the whole tribe. The very savages,
who, just before, had joined in flogging and
stoning the captives, now escorted them with
every sign of good-will to the tent of their chief.
Here, they were feasted upon dried deer’s meat,
and on boiled hominy, freely ‘mixed with bear’s
oil and sugar.
As they were very hungry, they ate heartily
of the food ; and, seeing that the race and the
rough treatment they had suffered appeared to
have left them rather weak and white, the chief
forced them to drink of a cordial made of honey,
rum and water, which warmed them through
and through, and filled them with new life.
They were, afterward, given places of honor in
the centre of the camp. For, there was an old
tradition in that tribe as to the coming of a white
male child, who would be wonderfully gifted in
every way, and who would, one day, lead their
warriors on to a universal victory over their
enemies.
AVilly knew nothing of this old legend ; and
Timothy was equally ignorant of it ; but sitting
there together, they were moved to give humble
thanks to God for His mercy in keeping them
24
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
from death, and spoke softly to each other of the
dear lost ones they might never hope to see again
on earth.
Meanwhile, the Indians, unusually elated by
the possession of the boy, were going about from
tent to tent, eating, smoking, or painting them-
selves.
Some beat a kind of drum, and sang hideously.
Others played a flute, made of hollow cane : or
twanged tlie Jew’s harp.
Here and there, groups of the younger men,
some of the dandies of the tribe, sat upon the
ground, playing a gambling game, of the nature
of dice.
A number of plum-stones were thrown into a
small wooden bowl. One side of each stone was
black, the other, white. The players shook the
bowl, in turn, crying out : I/tls hits^ hits !
Honesy^ honesy ! Rago^ rago!'^'^ — which Timo-
thy and his little friend discovered, after while,
meant that the gamblers were calling in their
Indian lingo, for black or white, or the color
they wished to bet upon. The game always
ended by turning the bowl upside down, and
counting the blacks ” and ‘‘ whites,” as they
chanced to fall.
As the result of the game, bunches of gaudy
plumes, knives, bracelets, strings of wampum, and
other glittering finery, changed hands rapidly —
TIMOTHY AND WILLY ARE ADOPTED. 25
but not without considerable bickering and quar-
relling.
In consideration of their courage and skill in
the race, (and out of respect to the boy’s supposed
dignity), Timothy and Wilson slept that night in
the tent of the chief, upon a bed of deer-skins.
The next day, just after sunrise, a number of
the Indians led them out again to the centre of
the camp.
They formed a circle round* the captives ; and
two of them began to pull the hair out of the
heads of Grindstone and the boy. This, they
did, by smearing their fingers with ashes, which
a couple of squaws held for them upon pieces of
bark.
Thus, getting a firmer hold, they plucked the
poor captives of their hair, as if they had been
plucking a pair of turkeys of their feathers.
When both heads were quite bald, saving three
scalp-locks on the crown, they dressed these up
in their own savage fashion. Two of them were
wrapped about with a narrow, beaded strap made
by themselves for that end ; the other, they
plaited at full length, and stuck full of silver
brooches.
After this, and while the eyes of the sufferers
were still streaming with tears of pain, they bored
their noses and ears, and fixed them off with ear-
rings of silver, and nose-jewels.
26
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
Next, ordering them to strip off their clothes,
the savages painted their bodies, limbs, and faces
with many brilliant colors.
Timothy and Willy were still smarting and
stinging (although in a brave silence), from the
many wounds upon their heads and faces, when
their masters put big belts of wampum around
their necks, and fastened silver bands on their
hands and right arms.
In this savage rig, an old chief led them out
into tho main street of the village, and cried aloud
very quickly, several times : Coo-wigh ! coo-
wigh ! ” — being the Indian for ‘‘ Halloo ! ”
At this, all the tribe came running, and stood
about the old chief, who held the captives by the
hand — the one on his right, the other, on his left.
Grindstone fully expected that he and Willy
were now about to be put to death in some cruel
fashion. He raised his eyes to heaven, feeling-
very ignorant, and helpless, and unfitted to die ;
but saying solemnly :
Lord have mercy on me, and forgive me all
my sins, for Jesus’ sake ! Amen.” Words, which
little Willy repeated after him, in a small, soft
voice.
His whisper was quite drowned by the very
loud voice of the old chief, who made a speech
to the crowd, handing over the captives, at its
end, to three young Indians.
TIMOTHY AND WILLY ARE ADOPTED. 27
These led Timothy and the boy down the ad-
jacent bank to the river, urging them straight
on, until the water was up to Willy’s chin.
Then, the savages made signs to Grindstone to
duck himself and Willy in the river.
But, the white man, not understanding their
monkey-shines, and believing they meant to
drown him and the child, made as if he would
swim for his life ; at which, the Indians seized
both man and boy, and soused them in the water,
giving them a good washing and rubbing.
The cool water was very pleasant to their
wounds, yet the poor sufferers still feared the
worst.
One of their tormentors who spoke a little
English managed to say, however, ‘^No hurt
you ! ” which gave the captives some comfort and
courage ; but, all the while, the savages on the
bank of the river, cried out : “ Qicethepeh ! ”
(Make haste !) and laughed long and loud at the
struggles of the half-drowning creatures.
The bath being ended, Timothy and the boy
were led up to the council-house, where some of
the tribe dressed them out in new ruffled shirts,
leggings trimmed with beads and gay ribbons,
handsome moccasins and garters. Their heads
and faces were again painted in bright colors,
and a bunch of red and yellow feathers tied to
the scalp-locks on the crown of each.
28
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
Seated on a bear-skin, with Willy at his side,
Timothy was presented with a pipe, a tomahawk,
and a pouch made from the hide of a pole-cat,
and stuffed with tobacco, and dry sumach leaves.
Willy was also given a small knife and a baby
tomahawk, with flint, steel, and a piece of touch-
wood.
Then, the rest of the Indians came into the
council-chamber, dressed, painted and plumed in
their grandest fashion.
They took their seats in the order of their
rank ; and, for a good ivhile, smoked their pipes
in profound silence.
At length, the oldest chief made a speech to
the captives, which was explained to them, on
the spot, by the Indian who spoke the best
English.
The old chief said :
“ My big son and my little son, you are now
flesh of our flesh, and bone of our bone. By the
ceremony just performed, every drop of white
blood has been washed out of your veins. You
are taken into the Caughnewaga nation. You
are adopted into our warlike tribe, in the place of
a great man, my brother, who once belonged to
us, and of his little son, who is also dead. After
what has passed this day, you are one of us by
an old strong law of ours. You have, now, noth-
ing to fear. We are as much bound to love, sup-
TIMOTHY AND WILLY ARE ADOPTED. 29
port, and defend you, from this out, as if you
were born children of the forest, sons of our own
great family.”
The cunning old chief said nothing about the
ancient tradition of his tribe, which made Willy
especially valuable and desirable to the Caugh-
newagas. It had been early agreed between him
and liis council, that it would be safer to suppress
the facts from the captives, les^/ they should pre-
sume too much upon their privileges.
But the old superstition of the tribe added
greatly to the warmth of their welcome, as the
Indians crowded around “ brother ” Timothy and
‘‘nephew” Willy Avho, for their part, were not
as much elated at the new relationship, as their
hosts might have supposed.
While Timothy was turning over in his mind
what had been said to them ; and, truth to tell,
not putting much trust in the fine words of the
old chief, — a big savage, painted black, and, flour-
ishing over his head a belt of red wampum, darted
into the council-chamber, shouting in terrific
tones :
“ Ilaukimah has returned ! Ilaukimah has re-
turned ! Tibiscag (this night), he comes to lead
us to war against the Wyandots ! ”
OHAPTEE III.
LOVE FINDS A WAY, AND — A MOTHER.
In the upper chamber of a large, old-fashioned
house, on the outskirts of Montreal, a young and
beautiful lady sat alone.
The room was spacious, and richly furnished
as a bedroom. Costly rugs lay about on the
polished floor ; delicate laces veiled the great
windows, looking front upon the suburbs of
more than two centuries ago ; and opening back
upon a big, splendid garden, full of midsummer
bloom, and scent, and song.
On the walls, hung many an oil-painting (of
the great masters) of the Madonna and her Holy
Child ; with, here and there, dainty pictures on
ivory or copper of the angels and saints of God.
But the sad eyes of the young and beautiful
lady were not flxed upon these as long or as
wistfully as they were on another and smaller
picture hanging over the Blessed Virgin’s shrine,
beside the huge, carved, mahogany bedstead,
with its curtains of crimson silk.
It was the portrait of a little girl of some three
or four summers. The face was lovely as that
30
LOVE FINDS A WAY, AND — A MOTHER. 31
of a cherub. Its dimpled cheeks were round and
rosy as twin-flowers. Under the broad, white
brow, round which clustered a crop of silken curls
of deep, rich red, a pair of wonderful eyes smiled
out at the gazer — large, black, and soft as velvet,
with long fringy lashes.
The pretty pouting lips, like the halves of a
divided cherry, seemed ready to speak the word,
Mamma ! ”
Hot tears rushed into the lady’s eyes, as she
gazed, and ran in streams down her pale cheeks.
The face on the wall was so faithful a little
copy of her own, that it was easy to guess the
cause of her grief, even before she covered her
eyes with her white jewelled hands, and sobbed
aloud:
My only one ! my lost Marianne ! If I could
but hear you call me ^ mamma ! ’ once again !
How can I bear it ? A year, to-day, since my
darling baby died ! ”
She rose from her chair, and went to the big
mahogany chest of drawers on the opposite side
of the room.
She drew a key from the silver chain at her
girdle. Opening with it an upper drawer, she
took out of it, with many kisses and tears, some
little dresses, a baby’s embroidered pinafore, and
a pair of tiny shoes, still bearing the wrinkles of
fat little ankles, and the print of baby toes.
32
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
A shower of withered rose leaves fell out of
the folds of the snowy garments ; and with them,
dropped upon the floor, (from a bit of silver
paper,) a silky curl of Titian red.
Stooping, the ‘lady caught it quickly up. She
was pressing it tenderlj^ to her lips, when a rap
came at the chamber-door, and a waiting-maid
entered. A small, dark woman, with a quiet,
attentive face.
“ Madame,” said she, the old Indian squaw is
here again. She has journeyed far ; she is very
tired and hungry. Will you please come into
the kitchen, and see what she has brought you ? ”
‘‘ In a moment, Margot,” replied Madame St.
Ange — for that was her name. “ Give the old
woman some bread and coffee ; and let her rest
in the lower hall until I come.”
With a low curtsey, the maid departed.
Then, in the perfumed solitude of her beauti-
ful chamber, after softly smoothing out the little
garments, piece by piece, and laying them lov-
ingly back in the drawer, the lady kissed once
more the tress of baby hair, and hid it among
the faded rose leaves.
This done, the key turned in the drawer, and
restored to her chatelaine^ Madame St. Ange
bathed her reddened eyelids in rose-water from
a crystal cruet on her toilet-table, and passed
down the staircase to the big sunny hall.
LOVE FINDS A WAY, AND — A MOTHER. 33
The old squaw had just finished her bowl of cof-
fee at the foot of the stairs.
She stood up at the sound of the mistress’ step.
She was ugly, dark, and dirty ; but her wrinkled
face, with the double dewlap under the chin, was
not a bad face. It had a motherly, friendly
look.
“Well, N’-o-kum,” said Madame St. Ange,
kindly, “ what have you to sell. to-day ? ”
“ Behold, Madame ! ” cried Margot, with a
laugh, pointing to a small object inside the ad-
joining kitchen, which, (standing as she did with
her back to the half-closed door), Madame St.
Ange had not yet discovered.
Now, pushing wide the door, and stepping for-
ward into the kitchen, the lady saw, with sur-
prise, a baby -girl crawling on the tiled floor, and
picking some apple-peelings out of the cracks.
The child was so dirty that her skin was dark
as N’-o-kum’s. Her clothes were in rags ; and a
filthy cloth was tied tightly over her head, com-
pletely covering her hair.
There was nothing eye-sweet or pleasing in
her looks, but Madame’s tender heart moved her
to stoop and pat the forlorn little head, saying
softly : “ Poor little baby ! poor motherless little
papoose ! ”
“ No papoose ! ” grunted the old squaw, “white
baby, white baby. N’-o-kum want attawom,'^^
34
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
“ N’-o-kum wants to sell you, does she, cherie ? ”
said Madame, still kindly stroking the small head
at her feet.
At the sight of the fair, gentle face stooping
tenderly over her, the poor little baby caught at
the hem of Madame’s gown, and hiding her eyes
in it, burst into tears, with a loud cry.
Madame’s motherly heart was deeply moved.
She was a good Christian. She had always
been used to look upon and love the poor, espe-
cially poor little children, as the living images of
her Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ.
She now took the little waif into her arms;
and, in spite of the dirt and rags, pressed her
close to her warm bosom.
The baby clung about her neck, hugging
her, again and again, and sobbing “Mamma!
mamma 1 ” till Madame’s eyes overflowed with
tears.
“ For Mademoiselle Marianne’s sake,” she
whispered to Margot, “ I would like to buy
the little creature, and keep her for my own.
But what would Monsieur, m}^' husband say ? ”
The maid shrugged her shoulders signiflcantly,
and made a despairing gesture — her hands ex-
tended with the palms thrown upward.
Her mistress sighed deeply. Carrying the
child over to N’-o-kum, she put her reluctantly
into the old squaw’s arms.
LOVE FINDS A WAY, AND — A MOTHER. 35
“ Monsieur St. Ange is absent foom home,”
she said to the Indian woman. “ I cannot take
the baby from you, to-day. Maybe, the Sisters
at the convent will buy her.”
Then to the maid :
‘‘ Margot, give the child a cup of warm milk,
and send her away with N’-o-kum.”
Madame’s heart was very sore as she spoke the
words. It cost her a sharp pang to give up the
baby to the squaw.
The poor little thing struggled fiercely in
N’-o-kum’s arms, and stretched out her fat hands to
the beautiful white lady, screaming all the while:
‘‘ Mamma ! mamma ! me want my mamma ! ”
Madame St. Ange hurried out of the kitchen,
and retreated to her chamber to escape those
piercing cries — those tender pleadings, that
awakened in her breast so many sad and touch-
ing memories.
Her husband was a rich merchant of Montreal.
He had gone on a business trip to Quebec, and
was not expected back for a week or two.
He was a good man — an excellent Christian —
always very kind and indulgent to his lovely,
young wife.
But he had one weakness — common to his na-
tion. He was excessively proud of his name, and
of his long line of illustrious ancestors.
He could even be a little stern on these points ;
36
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
SO that Madame did not feel sure enough of his
aristocratic benevolence to buy the strange baby
from the squaw in his absence, and adopt it for
her own.
True, she had plenty of money in her private
purse (always kept well supplied by her hus-
band) ; and, in a corner drawer of her cabinet
was a dazzling array of gilt beads, gaudy feath-
ers, silver chains, and other trinkets, for any one
of which N’-o-kum would have joyfully bartered
her whole tribe — to say nothing of a miserable
little white child.
Madame remembered, however, that when the
rich old merchant, Louis St. Ange, had done her
the honor of making her his wife, she had been
only a simple Irish maiden, Eileen O’Connell,
the protegee of his favorite sister, the Superioress
of the Ursuline convent who had educated her.
Beautiful as an angel, but without money, and
without ancestors of any account — save for their
Christian virtues — Eileen was deeply grateful for
this noble gentleman’s love, for the many splen-
did proofs of his entire devotion to her.
If now, it had been but a question of buying a
spaniel or a singing-bird ! But she would never
grieve or annoy Louis by any wilful act — even
though it were in the cause of holy charity.
As twilight began to fall, she put aside the
needle work, with which she had striven to dis-
LOVE EIKUS A WAY, AND — A MOTHER. 37
tract her thoughts from the forlorn baby, and
walked to one of the windows, looking down
upon the road in front of her stately house.
Pushing apart the lace curtains, she saw N’-o-kum,
with several young Indian men, squatting on the
pavement, close to the main entrance. The poor
baby had crawled away from her redskinned
nurse, and was creeping up the steps, beating the
marble with her plump little, hands, and scream-
ing still the same pitiful cry : “ Mamma !
mamma ! me want my mamma ! ”
The warm Irish heart of Eileen St. Ange ached
at the sound. Had not she herself been a found-
ling, dropped by night into the basket at the con-
vent door by her decent young mother, whom
the nuns found, next morning, dying upon their
steps ?
Who was better able, than she, to feel for the
sorrows of the homeless and the motherless ?
Long after the doors of the big house were
barred and bolted for the night — the maids in
their beds, and silence and darkness filling ail the
spacious rooms, the young mistress of all their
splendors, wide awake upon her couch, heard
through the open windows — for it was a warm
August night — the wailing cry of the hapless
baby at her door.
The whole night long, the shrill voice of the
child was never quiet. It would have been very
38
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
easy for N’-o-kum and her band to whip or frighten
the baby into silence ; but the savages had a pur-
pose of their own in letting it cry, unchecked.
The old squaw was keen-eyed, and shrewd
enough.
She had seen the tears, that day, on the white
lady’s lovely cheeks. She had noticed how ten-
derly the young mistress had pressed the baby to
her bosom.
Was it not, out of that handsome house, that a
small white coffin, covered with flowers, passed,
a year before ?
Haukimah, the chief, had said to N’-o-kum at
parting : ‘‘Attawom abishasheu netansis — sell the
little girl! Barter her to the French for what
she will bring.”
And now, N’-o-kum was letting the baby cry,
and cry, and cry — always — Mamma 1 mamma ! ”
— until Madame, the pale face, would be able to
stand it no longer, but would open her door at
the daybreak, and come down the steps, saying :
Here, N’-o-kum, here is your price 1 Take it,
and go your way ; but leave me the child ! ”
So, indeed, it fell out, in time ; only, instead of
Madame, the mistress, Margot the maid came
down the steps at sunrise, and, for a handful of
silver and a string of gilt beads, was given the
poor, hungry, crying baby, which she carried
away with her, upstairs to her lady’s room.
LOVE FINDS A WAY, AND — A MOTHER. 39
N’-o-kum and her gang departed at once, grinning
and capering with delight.
Madame St. Ange in a white linen dressing-
gown, looking almost as white as the linen from
her sleepless night of heart-ache and conflicting
fears, stretched out her arms eagerly for the
child.
But Margot (who had her doubts about the
whole business) held fast to the^baby, growling :
“Not yet, my lady, not yet! The wretched
little creature is filthy. She is covered with ver-
min, and too dirty for Madame to handle. Let
me first take her into the closet, and give her, if
you please, a warm bath in Mam’selle Marianne’s
tub.”
A great sob shook the young mother from
head to foot.
“ Yes, Margot,” she whispered : “ a warm bath,
first, in Mam’selle Marianne’s tub. I never
thought I could bring myself to see her pretty
clothes upon another; but here,” — running to
the chest of drawers, and taking out an armful of
lier dead child’s belongings — “ w^hen the poor
baby is clean, put on her, good Margot, these
things of my little lost one ! ”
The maid disappeared with her charge; and
Madame St. Ange kneeling upon her prayer-
stool, and gazing, by turns, at the parian statue
of the Blessed Virgin in its niche, and at the
40
LOT Leslie’s folks.
portrait of the lovely child that hung above it,
said her morning prayers with many tears, and
offered up to God, out of a full heart, the little
stranger within her gates.
She had some serious misgivings and anxieties
to lay before the Divine Consoler. It was the
first time in her married life that she had acted
in a matter of any moment without her hus-
band’s knowledge and consent.
To be sure, there was question, here, of the
salvation of a precious soul ; but would the faith
of the exclusive old merchant victoriously stand
this crucial test ? Eileen hid her face as she
prayed. It seemed to her excited fancy as if
the air were filled with the aristocratic phantoms
of the dead St. Anges, who glared sternly at her,
reproaching her with their cold eyes for this
deed of mercy done to an outcast child beneath
their honored descendant’s roof.
Presently, an outcry in the closet startled her
from her doubts and her devotions.
The voice of Margot rose in a shrill shriek —
half -laughing, half-crying : “ A miracle, my lady,
a miracle ! Mon Dieu ! Come, quick, and see
the miracle ! ”
The closet door was flung open at the word,
and the usually quiet maid bounced into the
room, strangely flushed and flurried, pushing be-
fore her, through the lace poi^tieres^ with that
LOVE FINDS A WAY, AND — A MOTHER. 41
same queer laugh, broken by hysterical sobs —
what f Was it a vision from the innocent dead ?
Was it an angel visitant from Paradise ?
Before the bewildered lady, stood a lovely
child — the limng image of her lost Marianne !
There, was the same round, rosy, cherub-like
face — there, the same mass of silken, dark-red
ringlets — the same great, black, velvety eyes
with their long, curling lashes f
“ Mamma ! mamma ! ” cried the pouting,
cherry lips ; and, opening her arms, Madame
St. Ange gathered into them the warm, white,
precious burden, and pressed it so closely to her
heaving breast, that the baby was frightened at
the strong throbbings of the mother’s happy
heart, and uttered a new cry : ‘‘ Papa ! ”
‘‘ Eileen, my wife ! ” said a deep voice at the
door behind her : “ What is the meaning of
this ? Am I dreaming, or do I see ? ”
“ Our lost Marianne ! our angel, come back to
us from heaven ! Forgive me, Louis ! I could not
help but take her in ? ”
And, flying to her husband’s embrace, Eileen
St. Ange cast her beautiful burden upon his broad
breast, and laid down her own bright head be-
side it, with a heavenly joy and content seldom
tasted on earth.
If the merchant’s dark brows contracted, if his
cheek paled, and his stern lips were drawn with
42
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
a sting of secret anguish, Madame and her baby-
guest saw it not.
Only Margot witnessed the change in her mas-
ter’s face; but the trusty maid kept her own
counsel, and at once quitted the room.
She went downstairs to the drawing-room, and
began to dust the frames of the great windows,
looking to the front.
All was quiet in the sunny road. Nothing was
in sight, save a black bundle lying in the road-
side.
Had she gone earlier to her task, she would
have beheld another singular scene. As old
N’-o-kum and her followers were trudging away
from the merchant’s door, a pale, wild-eyed
woman who had been scrubbing the steps of a
bakeshop opposite, rushed across the street, and,
catching at the squaw’s blanket, sobbed, more
than said :
What have you done with my baby ? Where
have you left my child — my little Love ? ”
It was the child’s own mother — it was Mistress
Lot Leslie !
With her husband, she had been sold by the
Indians to the baker, Jean Martin, whose shop
could be seen from the windows of the St. Ange
mansion.
Truth, certainly, is sometimes stranger than
fiction.
LOVE FINDS A WAY, AND — A MOTHER. 43
The Indian woman shrugged her shoulders,
and shook off the hand upon her blanket.
“ Baby all right ! ” she grunted : Baby, good
wigwam ! Baby, netansis kissi saw enogan nigah^
(daughter of a beautiful mother). Quithij>eh!
(make heart ! )”
And all the other Indians marched past the
weeping mother, wagging their heads, and cry-
ing in mockery : ‘‘ Qiiithipeh /‘ qiiithipeh ! ”
With a deep groan of anguish, as if her over-
taxed heart had broken, poor, pretty Mistress
Leslie threw up her arms above her head, and,
for the second time in her hardy life, dropped in
a dead faint among the savages.
CHAPTEK IV.
AN INDIAN PRINCESS AND HER HANDMAIDENS.
The name of the Princess was Suitara, and she
was the pet daughter of Pontiac, mighty chief of
the Ottawas of Michigan.
She was not much of a princess to look at —
yet her father was as truly king of his tribe as
the royal George, who then sat upon England’s
throne, was the ruler of his people.
The girl was about sixteen years old. She was
short and fat — so fat, that her small, cunning
eyes seemed half-buried in the cushions of her
broad, brown cheeks. Her forehead was very
low, and her nose and red lips very thick ; but
the wide mouth showed a splendid set of white,
even teeth every time she spoke or smiled. Her
coarse, black hair was plaited in two long, heavy
braids, that fell below her waist, tied with knots
of many-colored ribbons ; and on top of her head
was set a sort of crown of wampum, made of
shell-beads, yellow, purple, white, red, and black,
which glittered like jewels in the sun.
She wore a sack and skirt of scarlet cloth,
richly embroidered in tinsel. From her elbows
44
AN INDIAN PRINCESS.
45
to her hands, her arms were covered with brace-
lets. There were many necklaces around her fat
throat ; and several sorts of jewelled rings in her
ears.
Her feet were small : her moccasins, marvels
of sparkling bead-work. These, as well as her
dress, were the work of her own hands; for
Suitara had spent a year or two at the school of
the Ursuline nuns in Quebec, ^ and had, there,
learned to sew and embroider beautifully.
She had been taught, as well, to speak some
French; and had picked up a good deal of Eng-
lish among the young Yankee pupils — most of
them, little Hew England girls who had been
captured by the Indians.
The nuns had tried hard to make a good Cath-
olic of the Princess. Once, indeed, she had even
gone so far as to obtain her father’s permission to
be baptized ; but, being of a lazy, selfish nature — a
genuine child of the forest — she had drawn back
at the last moment, remaining unconverted from
her sensualities and superstitions to the end of
her school-days. She loved the gentle nuns,
however, very dearly in her savage fashion, even
if vshe delighted in their lessons in fancy-work,
more than she did in their instructions in the
Catechism.
She sat, now, upon the flat top of a high rock
(overlooking the eastern bank of the Detroit
46
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
river), stringing beads for a necklace, on a de-
sign given her by the Ursuline Superioress.
Some half-dozen young girls sat or squatted
around her, helping her with her task, or busy
with like work on their own account.
Two of these handmaidens were white. The
one on her right, who held toward her a big clam-
shell filled with many-colored beads, is one of
our young friends of Swan Island — Faith Leslie,
a plain, substantial, rather ordinary girl of twelve.
Her tints were all neutral — grey eyes, dust-
colored hair, and a dull complexion.
Her little sister, Hope, three years younger,
sat on Suitara’s left, sorting out some tangled
skeins of sewing silk.
The rough life among the Indians had not
served Hope Leslie as well as it had served her
more robust sister.
Both had now, for three months, been the
slaves of the Indian Princess. They might, in-
deed have been sold to a more cruel and brutal
mistress ; but Suitara had a good deal of the
savage in her, for all. She was not only selfish
and lazy (as we had said) but wilful and change-
able as the wind, and childishly pettish and
jealous.
Little Hope, who was a sensitive, nervous child,
had suffered sadly in the rude life of an Indian
lodge.
AK INDIAN PRINCESS.
47
She had grown tall for her age ; she stooped at
the shoulders, had weak eyes, and was very thin
and pale. A constant longing for her mother
and her old home seemed to burn, like a live coal,
in her little heart, wearing out her strength.
Homesickness, fear of her surroundings, and
the lack of the bracing salt-breezes of Swan
Island, were plainly killing her by inches.
The other girls of the group were Indians —
none of them worthy of special notice, except
the one who sat opposite Suitara, on a large
boulder, and who was known as Catharine of
the Wyandots.
She was a small, brown maiden of strangely
beautiful face and form. Dressed in a simple
garb of coarse blue flannel, she wore no orna-
ments, save a brass rosary-chain around her neck,
from which, hung on her bosom, a large cruciflx
of the same metal.
There was a lovely look of meekness and purity
on the peaceful face of this girl. Her soft, dark
eyes, like those of a frightened fawn, were, most
of the time, veiled timidly by their long, silken
lashes.
Altogether, she bore a striking likeness to the
picture of the Holy Virgin of Guadaloupe, im-
printed, by a miracle, some two centuries before,
on the leathern apron of a poor Mexican Indian.
Catharine of the Wyandots (or Hurons, as
48
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
they are better known), had been the schoolmate
of Suitara at the convent of the Ursulines; but,
unlike the Princess, she was a pupil of their
academy for many years, and became there a
fervent, practical Catholic.
Keturning, at last, to her tribe, she had carried
to them the good tidings of salvation ; and had
proved, from that time on, the guardian angel
of her people. At the request of her father,
the chief sachem, a priest had been sent by the
famous apostle. Father Charlevoix, to found a
mission near Fort Detroit, a mile or so above the
Wyandot settlement.
The tribe had been Christians, a hundred years
before; but had lost the faith through an in-
cursion of the fierce Iroquois, who had conquered
them in their settlement elsewhere.
Suitara was very fond of Catharine. She called
her Ne miss ” or my elder sister,” (as she was
a little younger than the Wyandot girl); and
very patient and winning was Catharine with the
wilful, unbaptized one, who had never known
the sweetness and strength of the holy Sacra-
ments— hoping to induce her, before long, to
become a practical Catholic.
The Princess had now been stringing her beads
for the tiresome space of fifteen minutes. This
was an age to the fickle creature, who was usually
restless as a wild bird.
AN INDIAN PRINCESS.
49
She had been chattering away to her girls,
while she wrought, and most of her talk was
about the strange marvel that had appeared, the
night before, in the heavens.
The wise ones of the tribe had beheld on the
face of the full moon, the images of an Indian
hatchet and a bleeding scalp ; and drops of rain
as red as blood, and smelling strongly of sulphur
had fallen in the early morning.^
Catharine began to speak some mild words
against putting faith in these and other queer
signs, dear to the superstitious Princess. She
urged that, doubtless, they had their cause in
some unknown law of nature.
‘‘ Hold your tongue, Ne miss ! ” pouted Suitara ;
“you are as wise as a medicine-man, but you
don’t know everything. There are ghosts in the
forests, and magic signs in the moon and stars,
that are far beyond your little knowledge. —
There ! take that, and finish it ! ” — and she flung
at Catharine the half-woven necklace she had
been fingering. “ I am going to sing you all a
new Recit — the Song of Suitara ! ”
With a quick turn of her fat hand, she
drew over her shoulder, a sort of rude guitar
that hung at her back, and began to tune the
strings.
* Both these freaks of nature actually occurred at this point about
the middle of the eighteenth century.
50
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
Music was one of her passions, and she showed
marked talent for it.
“ The Song of Suitmaf said she, grinning
around at the girls, while her stumpy fingers
strayed over the strings in a wild, sweet prelude,
is not about myself, but about the one I was
named after. She was the sister, — the Ne miss
of my great-grandmother. One of the old squaws
taught it to me, last night, while we sat at the
lodge-door, watching the bloody scalp cross the
silver of the moon.”
With that, the Princess struck the strings
bravely; and began to chant in the Ottawa
tongue (to a queer, melancholy tune) words,
which would be something like these in English :
Sing of the bright Suitara !
Sing of the Indian maid !
The young, the broken-hearted,
Who, in her bloom, departed
Into the Land of Shade !
Hair, like a floating shadow :
Eyes, as the starbeams bright;
And form like waving willow,
Or foam-wreath on the billow.
Were hers — her sire’s delight!
He strove to train his darling
To every forest-art.
What wonder that her graces,
Her sweetest of all faces
Won the bravest heart ?
AN INDIAN PKINCESS.
51
Not of a dusky warrior,
Chief of a swarthy band ;
But, heart of a noble ranger,
A fair-hair’d, pale-faced stranger.
Son of the Saxon land !
*****
*Twas in the Moon of Flowers,
In Nature’s dreamy mood.
When star-rays softly quiver
Upon the running river,
Suitara first was wooed.
** O love, sweet love ! ” he murmured :
“ Thy soft eyes turn on me !
As swiftly flows the river.
The happy, shining river.
To mingle with the sea —
** So flows my eager spirit.
This longing soul of mine.
The light and gloom unheeding,
Runs swiftly (gladly speeding)
To mingle, love, with thine ! ”
And, warbled back Suitara,
Warm-blushing in her charms;
** As sings the deep sea ever
Whene’er the shining river
Comes leaping to its arms ;
** E’en so, my fair-hair’d chieftain.
My river strong and free !
My soul’s deep sea rejoices.
And all its myriad voices
Are singing glad to thee ! ”
52
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
Thus, was the tender wooing
By silver streams begun ;
And ere the Moon of Flowers
Had spent its blushing hours,
Suitara’s heart was won.
Was won, — but not unheeded
By all that dusky tribe.
Who, at the council-fire.
Had roused her gloomy sire.
With bitter jest and gibe.
Fierce eyes had watched the wooing
Amid the forest-shade ;
Dark forms had followed, noiseless.
With burning rage (yet voiceless).
The pale-face and the maid.
The while, the lovers wandered
With smiling lip and eye —
Beneath the summer heaven,
A deadly oath was given :
The fair-haired chief must die !
CHAPTER V.
THE YANKEE WOMAN’S MESSAGE.
At this point, the Princess broke off her song —
showing signs of strange and strong excitement.
She pouted out her thick, red lips, and lowered
her heavy brows, until her small eyes glowed
under them like tiny sparks of red fire.
She seemed to fairly pant and choke in a burst
of passionate wrath. Throwing the guitar on
the ground, she sprang up, and began to pace to
and fro, wringing her hands, and crying out in a
loud, mournful voice : “ Oh ! hawe^ hawe^ hawe ! ”
(or alas ! alas ! alas !) with a long, dreary accent
on each syllable— as one who laments the dead.
Her Indian maids looked slyly at each other,
askance, as if to say : We know what she is
crying about, don’t we ? ”
Whether or not she caught one of these side-
long glances, in transit, it is hard to say ; but,
certain it is, that the daughter of Pontiac sud-
denly stopped her mortuary parade upon the
rocks, caught up her guitar, and slung it around
her neck, and, after spitting fiercely at the now
frightened maids, burst forth afresh into :
63
54
LOT Leslie’s folks.
Oh ! sweetly sleeps Suitara !
The night wind scarcely stirs;
And, in her magic dreaming,
Her lover’s eyes are beaming —
His hand is clasp’d in hers.
Oh ! sweetly sleeps Suitara !
But in the forest gloom.
No pitying moon is gleaming,
When, awful oaths redeeming,
Her lover meets his doom !
Ah ! ghastly, cold — he lieth
Upon a mossy bed.
With faintest starlight peeping
Upon his dreamless sleeping.
The desolate, the dead !
The sullen chieftains gather;
— From out the silent grove.
They bear him, hushed forever,
Unto the shining river.
Where first he met his love.
* * * * *
Alas ! for sweet Suitara !
The sunlight — half-afraid —
Its golden finger presses
Upon her silken tresses,
.Aiiid wakes the sleeping maid.
;She rises up in gladness.
While, like a treach’rous tide..
Her happy dreams ensnare her;
Her footsteps swiftly bear her
Down to the river’s side^
THE YANKEE WOMAN’S MESSAGE.
55
Alas ! alack ! Suitara I
That bloody corse and stark !
How mocking is the shiver
Of sunlight on the river
When all within is dark !
O brow, where is thy glory ?
O Love, thy winning art ?
Despair and Death are .Ijreathing
Their fun’ral strains — are wreathing
Their night shades round the heart!
Woe, woe to that sad maiden !
She kneeled her on the sod ;
In anguish wild and lonely.
She called for mercy only.
On ManiioUy her God.
And, bending o’er her lover.
Whose face the long hair hid,
(His blood-drench’d locks up-turning,)
She rained her tear-drops burning
On cheek, and brow, and lid.
Then, sang she, there, in sorrow,
A mad and mournful strain,
A dirge of happier hours.
Of paling, fading flowers,
That ne’er might bloom again :
Farewell, thou rushing river !
O earth, farewell, forever !
The Spirit Land hath charms.
For there, my pale love lingers.
And waves his shining fingers.
And WOOS me to his arms’
56
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
** I come, O fair-hair’d chieftain !
My spirit love ! ” she sang :
** I come, my own true hearted ! ”
— Ere lip and sound had parted,
Suitara downward sprang !
*****
Alas ! for mad Suitara !
The waters cool and bright.
With rippling, fond caresses.
Closed o’er her streaming tresses,
Closed o’er her eyes of light!
Another Moon of Flowers
Came smiling, blushing still.
And beauteous was the quiver
Of sunlight on the river.
Or starlight on the rill.
But, in an English homestead
A mother wept her dead ;
And an Indian lodge was mourning
A face no more returning,
A form forever fled !
With a noisy flourish on her guitar, the Princess
ended her lengthy recital.
“Mademoiselle,” asked Faith Leslie with a
look of horror in her honest eyes, (Suitara al-
ways made her slaves call Jier “Mademoiselle^^
— she liked the courtly sound of it) : “ Do you
really mean it ? ”
“ Mean what ? ” sniffed her Highness, barely
turning her head to the right.
“That this — this Indian lady, dashed herself
THE YANKEE WOMAN’S MESSAGE. 57
from the rock, and drown’d herself, because her
beau was killed ? ”
“ That’s just what the song means,” replied
Suitara, picking softly at the strings; “and just
what I would do myself, if anybody killed my
lover, be he red or white ! ”
“Oh! no, no, dear,” said^ Catharine with
gentle firmness : “ you would never do that ! It
would be a dreadful crime. To kill one’s self in
cold blood is to rush straight into the everlasting
flames of hell ! Oh ! no, Mademoiselle, you would
never do that ! ”
She spoke in French, and with a strange, sol-
emn earnestness.
^^Ne miss ! ” cried the Princess sternly : “ you
insult the memory of my namesake, of the sister
of my great-grandmother. Have you the impu-
dence to tell me, before my maids, that my an-
cestor, the illustrious Suitara, is now burning in
the eternal fires of hell ? I am ashamed of you,
Ne miss ! Ne his si wash en^ Ne miss, (I am an-
gry, elder sister 1 ”)
** Hey, diddle, diddle !
The cat’s in the fiddle ;
The dish hopped over the spoon.
The little dog laughed
To see the sport.
And the cow jumped over the moon ! ”
said a loud voice so close at hand, that it made
58
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
the maidens start, and the Princess spring to her
feet.
The speaker was a white woman, who had
come along the river-road from a Wyandot hut,
while Suitara was singing. All the maids were
so busy with the song, or with their work, that
no one had noticed her approach.
She was a tall, homely woman, loose-jointed,
and past her first youth. She had a queer, over-
grown look in her shabby brown kersey coat
and skirt of yellow cotton, which plainly showed
her bony ankles, and her large feet in a pair of
old, broken shoes.
In these daj^s, she might have been mistaken
for a fourth-rate bicyclist, about to mount her
wheel.
But Faith and Hope Leslie had no sooner laid
eyes on her plain, honest face, than they ran to
her with open arms, crying :
‘‘ Why, it’s Prudence ! It’s our own dear old
Prudence Skillet ! ”
‘‘ Lord love you, children ! ” said the newcomer
cordially, as she caught to her flat breast the
young things she had nursed in babyhood : I’m
heart-glad to see you again ! Didn’t you tell ’em
about me, Catharine of the Wyandots?” (turn-
ing to the Indian girl) : Didn’t she think it
worth while to remark, my pretties, that Pru-
dence Skillet of Swan Island had been sold by
THE YANKEE WOMAN’S MESSAGE.
59
them pesky redskins to her mother, Mistress
Tarbucket, for — think of it ! — a handful of rib-
bons and beads ? ”
‘‘ Tarbuki^ good Prudence,” corrected Catharine
mildly ; and even the other Indian girls laughed.
‘‘ Botheration on their heathenish names ! ”
cried the Yankee woman, straightening her cap,
which Hope had knocked sideways in her loving-
caresses : Isn’t one of the old squaws named
White-wash-hrush ! ”
“ Wluj-waslii-bvoocli ! ” put in the Princess in a
pet : del ! she is Catharine’s grandmother !
Ne miss ! ” said she to the Wyandot girl in their
own tongue : “ what has brought this saucy slave
of yours here, to make sport of our people ? ”
“ Never you trouble yourself about it, my gal,”
replied Prudence with a glance of loving respect
at her young Indian mistress : “ If this fat little
she-bear must know it, your good mother sent
me here with a message. An Injin runner has
just rushed into the blockhouse, yander. He
says lots of strange canoes full of redskins is
coming up the river. The best thing you gals
can do is to pick up your traps, and hurry back
with me to the village ! ”
Before the last words were out of the speaker’s
mouth, Suitara had crept to the edge of the cliff,
thrown herself flat on her stomach, and leaning
forward, peered anxiously up the stream.
60
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
There, sure enough, were the crowded boats
rowing swiftly down the river !
They were far enough off to make it impossi-
ble to see if they carried friends or foes; yet
near enough to strike terror to the hearts of the
maidens on the rock.
Springing again to her feet, the Princess
caught Catharine by one hand. Faith Leslie by
the other ; and, followed by the other girls, ran,
like a deer, toward the Wyandot village, her
guitar rattling at her back, and her long, black
braids standing out behind her on the wind, as
if they had been wired.
Little Hope clung, pale and trembling, to Pru-
dence Skillet’s arm.
But the Yankee woman held bravely up her
precious burden ; and, as she strode along behind
the maidens, she kept muttering texts to cheer
her young charge’s heart. And, in spite of the
threatening peril, the little white girls felt some-
what at home once more, as they heard the old
familiar voice of their servitor murmuring :
“ The Lord hath chastened me sore, yet He
hath not given me over to death. . . . Wait
on the Lord, be of good courage, and He shall
strengthen thy heart. Wait, I say, on the Lord ! ”
OHAPTEE VI.
MAEIANNE ST. ANGE.
Let us now go back to that earlj^ morning in
August, when poor Mistress Leslie dropped down
in a faint, close to the door of the St. Ange man-
sion in Montreal.
Old N’-o-kum and her Indians had long since
disappeared. The suburban street was still very
quiet, no one being abroad at that hour, save
tradesmen, or a few pious souls hurrying along to
early Mass.
None of these passed close to the spot where
the poor woman lay, all in a heap, upon the
pavement.
At last, Lot Leslie came out of the baker’s shop,
and was about to fill with loaves of fresh bread,
the little cart, which he, daily, trundled about the
city, serving his master’s customers.
His eye fell upon the idle scrubbing bucket
and mop ; and then Avandered to the dark object
lying on the other side of the street.
He had missed his Avife from their room over
the stable ; but supposed she Avas busy Avith her
61
62
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
mistress in the kitchen, or occupied, as was her*
wont, before breakfast, in cleaning the front
steps.
Now, running across the street, he saw, with
horror, that the senseless bundle on the side-walk
was really his poor companion in misery.
Her head had been cut by her fall, and her
face was covered with blood from the wound.
Lot’s piercing cries soon brought out the
frightened baker, Jean Martin, from his shop ;
and between them, the men raised the uncon-
scious woman, and carried her back to her room
in the stable.
Before noon, the poor creature was raving in a
high fever.
Her many sorrows and losses, coupled with
the morning’s shock, and the injury to her head
in that cruel fall upon the street, had brought on
an attack of brain-fever.
For many weeks, poor Hope Leslie hovered
between life and death.
Her mistress, an excellent Catholic French-
woman, nursed her with great charity and de-
votion ; and the baker kindly allowed Lot many
a free moment to watch beside her bed.
Neither of them knew that, on the day, when
the poor woman was at her worst, a splendid
carriage rolled up to the door of Louis St. Ange’s
house, and stopped there — the glossy white
MARIANNE ST. ANGE.
63
horses, in their gold-mounted harness, stamping
the ground and tossing their haughty heads, as
if eager to be off again.
Presently, the house-door opened, and Monsieur
and Madame St. Ange came out, richly dressed,
followed by Margot, carrying in her arms the
adopted child.
Little Love was beautiful as a picture in the
exquisite white robe, cloak and cap of the dead
Marianne. Her cheeks were like fresh roses
after the morning bath, and her big, black eyes
sparkled with joy, as well as with the love for
her new parents.
When the party were seated in the carriage,
the liveried coachman and footmen sprang to
their places, and away pranced the horses to the
parish church of Notre Dame.
Here, little Love was carried up to the altar of
the Blessed Virgin, where the priest in waiting
baptized her for the first time in her little life,
giving her the name of Marianne St. Ange. Her
new parents knew her by no other, as the baby
was too young to speak plainly the words “ Love
Leslie ” ; and old thieving N’-o-kum either did not
know, or did not care to xeveal the name of her
infant captive.
Strange to say, the priest who baptized little
Love had no sooner finished the ceremony, than
he was called away to the bake-house of Jean
64
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
Martin, to attend there a sick servant, believed
to be dying of brain-fever.
The beautiful charity of the baker’s wife had
deeply touched the heart of poor Mistress Leslie,
and opened for her the door to the Light of God,
the true Faith of Christ. When reason began to
return to her poor racked brain, feeling, (from her
deadly weakness) that death might be very near,
and realizing that she knew little or nothing of
God or the things of God, she listened willingly to
the kind words and simple instructions of Madame
Martin, and at last consented to see the priest.
Lot Leslie was not altogether satisfied with
this arrangement ; but he was very fond of his
wife, and very grateful to the Martins for all
their kindness to her.
Therefore, he made no objections when the
sick woman expressed a desire to be baptized.
As he could not bring himself, however, to go
into the room while the priest was there, he took
his pipe and his cap, and went out for a stroll in
the streets, until all the fuss ” (as he called it)
should be over.
In this way, he came to pass by a magnificent
carriage and horses, with liveried outriders, that
dashed around the corner as he turned it, and
stopped in front of a big house near by.
Lot was too full of his own thoughts to notice
the people in the carriage.
MAKIAl^IS^E ST. A;N^GE.
65
Even if he had looked at the elegant gentle-
man and lady who got out of the carriage, or at
the neat maid who followed them, carrying a
child, he would hardly have known the beautiful,
richly-dressed baby in her arms to be his own lit-
tle lost I.ove whom he had never seen Avearing
anything finer than a gingham dress and a cot-
ton cap.
The life that began that day for his baby-girl
was like the life of a little princess in a fairy-
tale. Back of the elegant house that had now
become her home, stretched a large, lovely, old
garden, radiant with beds of sweet-scented floAv-
ers, and cool with fountains and fish-ponds. At
the end of its winding gravel-paths, among the
SAvings and the rustic arbors, stood the pretty
playhouse of the dead Marianne.
In it, was all that a child-heart could desire — a
parlor, dining-room and kitchen on the first floor :
a sitting-room and bedroom on the second. Eeal
velvet carpets were on the floors ; real lace cur-
tains at the glass AvindoAvs ; while every French
toy that could please a baby was to be found in
this wonderful little house, now belonging to Love.
Margot’s married sister Avas brought all the
AV^ay from Quebec to be her nurse. Colette Garde
Avas her name. She was a ydung Atidow, Avith
oiie little girl, whom she fetched Avith her to
Montreal.
66
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
The coming of Colette’s child was a great joy
to the new Marianne. She was a year or two
older than Love, and was called Eose-Marie.
All day long, the two little ones were out with
Colette in the beautiful garden, playing among
the floAvers, feeding the fish in the ponds, or keep-
ing house beside the fountain, beneath the waving
grape-vines.
When they tired of their play, or when the
colder days began to come, they made merry in
the big, warm, sunny nursery, next to Madame
St. Ange’s rooms, where the closets were over-
flowing with foreign toys ; and Madame always
came in each afternoon, to drink a cup of warm
milk, and eat a bit of sweet cake with the chil-
dren at their own dainty little table, sparkling
with silver, glass, and French china.
Little Love soon learned to bless herself prop-
erly, and say her baby-prayers. She had her
small prayer-stool beside her new mamma’s in
the great bed-chamber, and her tiny velvet has-
sock close to Madame’s easy chair, where she re-
cited her scraps of catechism in French, and lis-
tened, in time, to the loveliest stories of Blessed
Lady and the saints, told to her by Madame, each
night, before Colette came to carry her off to bed
in the adjoining closet.
On Sundays and feast-days, she went to Mass
with her parents in the grand family-coach:
MARIANNE ST. ANGE.
67
gravely crossed herself with holy water at the
church-door (as the others did) ; and knelt with
little Kose-Marie in front of the magnificent,
lighted altars, saying her beads upon a little
golden rosary that her papa had given her for
her own.
All this time, she never knew that, just across
the street from her elegant home, her real father
and mother were living in the stable-room of
Jean Martin, the baker.
Every morning. Lot Leslie pushed his little
bread-cart to Mr. St. Ange’s door, and handed
out the warm, white, French loaves and rolls to
Mr. St. Ange’s waiter-boy.
He brought, in this way, the very bread to the
rich merchant’s table, yet never dreamed that his
own dear little daughter was feasting on it in
that great house, as its most cherished child.
Mistress Leslie’s sickness had lasted for many
months ; and after the dreadful fever left her,
she remained so weak and helpless, that her mind
and memory seemed altogether gone from her.
She would sit by the hour with her thin hands
folded in her lap, and her wild eyes staring
blankly at a spot on the tiled floor — saying no
word to either husband or friends.
This state of things went on for more than a
year.
Poor Lot had given up all hope of ever seeing
68
LOT Leslie’s folks.
his wife a strong and sensible woman again, when,
one morning, some fifteen months after her meet-
ing with ]N’-o-kum and her fall upon the street,
Mistress Leslie began to speak a few broken
words, and show signs of returning memory.
Her husband often caught her muttering to
herself ; and the words she jabbered were always
the same : Little Love ! — old H’-o-kum ! — sold
my baby ! — big house across the street ! ”
Lot began to study over these words (so often
repeated) wondering what they meant — wonder-
ing if they had anything to do with his wife’s
fainting-fit, more than a year before, and the al-
most fatal illness that had followed.
Gradually, as the poor shattered mind of the
sick woman regained its balance, she began to
recall the past, and to piece together the last
broken threads in the tragedy of her life.
After a weary while, she was able to tell her
patient husband all she had seen and heard, that
August day, when the squaw, N’-o-kum, had
given up their own little Love to the merchant’s
maid for a handful of silver and a few shining
trinkets.
The painful story almost cost the poor woman
a relapse.
Lot Leslie, as he listened to it, began to doubt
whether the things she spoke of had really ever
happened, or whether they were not part of her
MAKIAKNE ST. ANGE.
09
mad ravings — part of the feverish dreams of her
long- wandering mind.
In -spite of himself, however, he took to watch-
ing the doors and windows of the merchant’s
house. The blood would rush to his head, and
his heart stand still, whenever he saw a lovely,
little familiar face looking ,Qut through the lace
curtains, or the graceful form of a richly -dressed
child upon the marble steps.
But, sometimes, there were two pretty little
girls going out from the great house, with their
stylish white-capped honne.
Then, poor Lot would sigh, and rush back into
the bake-shop, sorely puzzled and troubled.
Who is he — the slave of an humble baker —
that he should dare to claim either of those
elegantly-dressed children for his own : or pre^
sume to question their nurse, who bore herself
with such a grand, proud air ?
In the second spring of her captivity, poor
Mistress Leslie caught a heavy cold which, (still
weak, as she was, from her long illness), carried
her off in a few days.
She died a happy, peaceful death, receiving
all the last rites of the Church, and lovingly
waited on until the end by her devoted mistress.
With her dying breath, she repeated the story
of the Indian squaw’s having sold little Love to
the servant of the rich merchant ; and urged
70
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
upon Lot to recover the child, and to join the
true Church, which makes death so sweet and
welcome a guest to its faithful children.
Thus, patient and resigned to all her losses and
crosses, kissing the crucifix tenderly, and putting
her trust firmly in Christ and His Blessed
Mother, the good, suffering woman passed peace-
fully away to her reward, and was buried, in
due time, in the nearest Catholic graveyard, far
away from her early home and friends.
The day after her funeral, when poor Lot was
sitting alone, sadly enough, in the bake-shop, keep-
ing watch while his master was at supper, a strange
man with a squint and a hair-lip came into the
shop. He wanted a couple of buns and a cup of
coffee which could always be had at that hour at
Jean Martin’s.
The stranger talked a good deal, as he ate and
drank; and the sound of his tongue was homely
and sweet to Leslie’s ears.
It was the voice of a brother Yankee.
He, too, recognized a countryman in poor
Lot ; and, as they chatted freely together, it
came out that the newcomer was an agent from
the New England colonies, sent out to find and
bring back all the captives he might discover in
Canada.
His name was Wheelwright. In spite of his
sinister looks, he seemed to be a genial, pleasant-
MARIANKE ST. ANGE.
71
mannered man, so that Lot soon told him his
whole sad story.
He shed tears as he described the sickness and
death of his wife ; and the agent’s interest in the
tale increased, as Leslie repeated the dead
mother’s story of the sale of her baby by the
Indians to the rich merchant, Louis St. Ange.
‘‘ Leave this matter to me, friend Leslie,” said
Wheelwright with a grin, at the end of their talk.
“ Strike me dead, if we don’t soon have you and
your little gal safe on the way to the Colonies.
But, mum’s the word — for here comes your mas-
ter, if I don’t mistake ! ”
Sure enough, there was Jean Martin, back
from his supper, a short, burly, good-humored
man, whose rosy, smiling face bespoke him at
peace with all the world.
His red cheek suddenly paled, however, and his
good humor was rather rudely disturbed, when
he learned the agent’s business.
He was much attached to Lot ; and he felt that
liis kindness to him and his dead wife deserved
some practical return.
But Wheelwright was wily and sweet-tongued.
He offered so large a ransom for the Yankee
slave, that the baker yielded at last, and con-
sented to let Lot go, provided he agreed to wait
a day or two until a man could be gotten to take
his place.
LOT Leslie’s folks.
This being arranged to please both parties,
Wheelwright took his departure, with a sly wink
and a parting whisper to Lot :
“ Courage, man, and a stiff upper lip ! A glass
all round — if we don’t soon have your little gal
safe out of the clutches of these French papists ! ”
The next day, the head -gardener at Mr. St.
Ange’s had a new man to help him trim grape-
vines and set out some spring plants.
One of the under-gardeners chanced to be sick,
and in his place, came this stranger who had a
squint and a hare-lip, but whose talk was very
pleasant and winning, in spite of its Yankee
twang.
As the two men worked among the arbors
with their ladders and shears, little Love and her
playmate, Kose-Marie, skipped merrily through
the garden paths, and began their daily game of
housekeeping in the pretty playhouse beside the
fountain.
Colette Garde, in her white apron and cap, sat ‘
knitting on the stone bench, close at hand.
It was not long before the keen-witted man
with the hare-lip got to know from the honneh
constant calls and cautions to the little ones,
which was her own child, and which, the adopted
daughter of the rich merchant.
Fortune favored the plans of the Yankee agent.
MABIAKKE ST. ANGE.
73
A message to the head-gardener, from some of
his men, took him away, before long, to a distant
part of the large garden.
Wheelwright, while tying up one of the vines
to its trellis, made a great outcry that he had
found a bird’s nest full of young ones on top of
the arbor.
The little girls, now some five or six years old,
ran at once to the foot of the ladder, and begged
to see the lovely sight.
The agent refused to let little Love mount the
ladder ; but helped Eose-Marie to climb a few
rounds, when suddenly, having his back to Co-
lette, he tilted the ladder ; and the bonnets child
fell screaming to the ground.
It was not a bad fall ; but Colette sprang,
like a flash, to her darling, and caught her up in
a fright. She began to run toward the great
house, kissing and soothing Eose-Marie, who still
sobbed and shrieked from the pain of her bruises.
All had turned out as Wheelright had guessed
it would.
The mother-love in the heart of Colette had
made her, in her unexpected moment of trial,
forget the care of. her foster-child.
Little Love stood alone by the arbor, pale and
trembling, quite at the mercy of this dreadful
stranger, who squinted at her horribly, and had
his upper lip slit clean up to his nose.
74
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
But the agent made the best of his golden op-
portunity.
Poor little gal ! ” said he soothingly, in rather
bad French, but still in his sweet-tongued fash-
ion: “JSTurse thinks a heap more of Eose-Marie
than she does of Marianne. Strike me dead, if
mamma would treat her dear little gal that
way ! She was at the garding-gate as I came in
to-day. Want to know what she said ? ”
The little gal ” shook like a leaf — but stood
mute as a lamb before its slaughterer.
‘‘ Why, she asked me to fetch you to her in an
hour’s time. What for, my pretty ? What else
could it be but to take you out for a ride ? Gra-
cious me ! ” he cried, looking at a big old silver
watch that he drew from his fob, “ it’s just the
hour now ! Come along, dearie. We haven’t a
minute to lose. We’ll find mamma in the car-
riage, right outside the garding gate ! ”
And catching up his hat and coat from the
grass, and taking little Love by the hand, he
hurried the frightened child through the open
gate, and made off with her down a narrow, back
alley.
CHAPTEK YII.
THE ATTACK ON THE BLOCKHOUSE.
When we last saw the Indian Princess Siii-
tara, she was racing, as fast as her fat legs would
carry her, along the river road to the Wyandot
village.
With Catharine Tarbuki on one side. Faith
Leslie on the other, with Prudence and little
Hope bringing up the rear, the Princess and her
suite fled before the approach of the strange sav-
ages in the boats, who, for all they knew to the
contrary, might be their enemies, the dreaded
Mohawks.
As all ran breathlessly along, Suitara met a
young Indian coming alone from a bird-hunt,
with a string of quail dangling from his shoul-
ders.
This was her elder brother, MescoTi-Kinihic
(or the Eed Snake).
“ Ni stess! (my elder brother ! ) ” cried she :
‘‘ our enemies are coming down the river ! It is
too late to return to the castle with my maids.
We go now, with Catherine Tarbuki to the block-
house of the French and Wyandots.”
75
76
LOT Leslie’s folks.
What is that to me ? ” asked the son of Pon-
tiac, with a scowl.
It is everything to 7ne ! ” cried the Princess,
haughtily. “ You will find my canoe in the cove
below Suitara’s rock. Take it ; row quickly to
the camp-fires of the Ottawas, and rouse the
tribe to our defence ! ”
‘‘ Our father, the great Pontiac, is away with
his braves at Lake George ! ” grunted Eed Snake,
as he tried the keen edge of his scalping-knife
with his thick thumb.
“ But, are you not his eldest son ? ” urged Sui-
tara, cunningly : “ are you not the lion of the Ot-
tawas, the star of the council, the Red Snake of
the woods — fearless and venomous ? Summon, I
beg of you, Wdbisca Miikum (the White Eagle) ”
— and the girl’s brown cheek flushed darkly —
‘‘ summon all the warriors of our people, and bid
them sing their war-songs, and dance their war-
dance, for the daughter of their great chief is in
danger. You and White Eagle must lead them
here, at once, to her rescue. Quethepeh^ Ni stess,
quethepeh ! ( make haste, elder brother, make
haste ! ) ”
By th^ tinie the girls reached the Wyandot
village, ^1 its people had taken refuge in the
blockhouse of the French traders, for French
and Indians in those days, made conlmon cause.
The blockhouse was very big and strong. It
THE ATTACK ON THE BLOCKFIOUSE. 77
was built of enormous logs. The upper story
projected over the lower, so that the garrison
could fire with ease upon any attacking party.
The roof was of shingle, and therefore, in dan-
ger from the fire arrows of a native foe.
But, the worst peril arose from the site of the
blockhouse. On one side of it was a small lake
(long since disappeared) ; on the other, the De-
troit river.
Unfortunately, the bank of the stream rose, at
this point, in a high, steep ridge, within forty feet
of the blockhouse, giving a natural cover to en-
emies assailing it. If they even failed, thus pro-
tected, on the riverside, they were sure of a
chance on the bank of the lake.
Mary Tarbuki, the mother of Catharine, waited
for her daughter, and the other maidens, at the
door of the fortress.
She was a small, slender woman, not much past
thirty, of singular beauty, and of such gentle,
quiet ways, that the tribe called her ‘‘ Omi-mee^ ”
or the Dove.
A worthy mother, was she, of so saintly a
maiden as Catharine of the Wyandots.
Their home, poor as it was, was an abode of
such peace, purity, and simple holiness, that Pru-
dence Skillet, their slare, (albeit she retained a
good deal of the bigotry of her early Puritan
associates), regarded her mistresses with tender
78
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
love and reverence, and almost began to think
that the religion which made such saints out of
savages must be the one established by Christ
Himself.
She now watched them closely, as she helped
them fill the water buckets, and pass them up to
the sentries at the lookout on the roof ; and her
heart grew calm and full of trust in God, as she
saw Mary and Catharine cross themselves quietly
in the midst of the work, or press the crucifix
that each wore upon her neck-chain, lovingly to
their lips.
Both mother and daughter never ceased to
cheer the young white girls, who, remembering
Swan Island, clung together, pale and trembling.
They never ceased to calm the poor, fussj^
Princess who fretted and chafed without pause,
constantly running to the long, narrow loop-
holes, ostensibly, to see if Red Snake and his
warriors were approaching to the rescue.
The girls all knew that she was watching less
for her brother, than for Wabisca Mukusii^ the
half-breed.
He was known as the White Eagle, because of
his fair skin, which he took from his white fa-
ther ; and Suitara had promised to marry him
before he went away, that autumn, with the rest
of the braves, to the hunting-grounds of the
Ottawas.
THE ATTACK OK THE BLOCKHOUSE. 79
She hoped that White Eagle’s courage and
skill, in helping her brother, on this occasion, to
rescue her from the siege of the blockhouse,
might win the consent of the great Pontiac to
their marriage. He had all along refused the
hand of his daughter to a half-breed — having an
innate scorn for the whites.
Meanwhile, the canoes of the strange Indians
had been lost sight of on the river. With the
cunning of their race, they had guided their
boats into the most hidden curves and thickly-
wooded windings of the eastern littoral, so that
they reached at last, unobserved, the foot of the
ridge, facing the blockhouse.
Their chief was our old friend, Haukimah :
and with him, in the leading canoe, were Tim-
othy Grindstone and little Wilson Leslie.
It was not the custom of the Caughnewagas to
take with them to battle so young a boy as
Wilson. But, apart from the tribal legend that
controlled his fate, the little fellow had shown
himself so brave, so sharp-witted, so manly — so
worthy, in short, of the dead son, whose place he
was supposed to fill — that the chief not only
dressed him as a warrior at an age when other
boys of his years were running about the camp
naked, but carried him with him everywhere, as
a sort of mascot.
Stealthily crawling, like cats, under cover of
80
LOT Leslie’s folks.
the high bank, the Caughnewagas drew near, in
full force, to the blockhouse. The traders and
the Wyandots knew nothing of their approach,
until the horrible yell of their enemies burst upon
their ears. They were close to the dry ditch, in
front of the fortress, before a gun was fired from
the upper-ramparts.
Then, Haukimah and his men dropped into the
trench, and from that shelter, fired at every
loophole, or threw burning arrows, or fire-balls
of pitch against the wooden walls.
Some of them pulled down a small outhouse,
and made the timbers into a breast- work, behind
which they screened themselves, as they pushed
forward to the fight. Others crouched behind
the steep river-ridge, and fired at their ease, set-
ting in flames the wooden roof of the blockhouse.
The traders rapidly extinguished the red blaze
with the water from the women’s buckets.
The horrid outcries of the attacking savages,
the smoke, the rattle of guns, and the constant
leaping up in various quarters of long tongues of
fire — made the place seem, for the time, a hot
quarter of the infernal regions.
Timothy and little Willy were in the thick of
the fight, close to the heels of Haukimah, when
the bright eyes of the boy discovered a big com-
pany of Indians sneaking up in the direction of
the fort from the woody banks of the lake.
THE ATTACK ON THE BLOCKHOUSE. 81
Ked Snake and White Eagle were bringing on
their Ottawas to the rescue !
They had met on the road a scou ting-party
from their own camp, and now led them forward
to the blockhouse.
An immediate rush was made by the Caughne-
wagas against the plumed and painted warriors
of Pontiac.
Horrible was the scene of slaughter that en-
sued. The warring savages fought like demons ;
and every once in a while, rang out on the shud-
dering air, the long, melancholy shriek of the
scalp-yell.
No power could keep Suitara from the loop-
holes. She was all eyes to witness the fate of
her tribesmen — all anxiety to follow the move-
ments of White Eagle and her brother.
At last, seeing her fair-haired lover fall be-
neath the fierce stroke of Haukimah’s axe, she
set up such a piercing howl, that the sound drew
upon her the attention of one of the Caughne-
waga archers. He immediately let fly at the
loophole the poisoned arrow in his bow, and
poor Suitara fell back into Faith Leslie’s arms
with the bloody dart quivering in her bosom.
‘‘ I die, Ne miss^ I die ! ” groaned the wretched
Princess, stretching out her hands to Catharine,
who flew to her side, catching up a bowl of
82
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
water as she ran. “Ne miss, ne goos tow ! (elder
sister, I am afraid !) ”
“ Art thou sorry, dear, for all the sins of thy
life?” whispered the angel of the Wyandots,
bending her lovely, gentle face close to the dark,
troubled visage of her friend.
‘‘Yes, Ne mdss, sorry from the bottom of my
heart ! ” gasped poor Suitara.
“ Dost thou believe in God the Father, God
the Son, God the Holy Ghost ? Thou knowest
all the truths of the Holy Catholic Church,
Suitara,” hurried on Catharine, as she saw a
strange, awful look coming into the dying girl’s
glazing eyes; “Dost thou firmly believe all
those truths we were taught by Sister Ursula at
school ? ”
“All — all, Ne miss!^^ groaned the Princess,
tightening her hold upon her friend’s hand, as if
she would fain take her with her down the dark,
unknown pathway she had begun to tread —
which led, she knew not whither.
“ Then, wilt thou be baptized ? ” asked Cathar-
ine, “ and go in thine innocence to heaven ? ”
“Yes, to heaven — to heaven ! ” murmured the
Princess faintly ; and, while the sweet, old words
of her childhood’s prayer at the nunnery came
back to her lips: Jesus ^ Mary and Joseph^ I
give you my heart and my soul ! ” — Catharine
poured the saving waters on her head, saying
THE ATTACK OK THE BLOCKHOUSE. 83
distinctly, “ I baptize thee, Maria, in the name
of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy
Ghost. Amen ; ’’ shedding, the while, silent tears
of joy to know that her best-loved friend was at
last a Christian.
Then, the poison mounting ' ‘to her brain, Sui-
tara began to rave — to chant softly to herself a
measure from the song she had sung her hand-
maidens, that day, upon the cliff :
“ ‘ I come, my fair-haired chieftain !
My spirit love ! ’ she sang :
‘ I come, my own true-hearted ! ’ ”
And, verily.
Ere lip and sound had parted, ’’
the hapless daughter of Pontiac, now swollen to
an enormous, purple mass, straightened herself
upon the breast of her friend, and slept in the
peace of the Lord.
As Catharine closed the heavy lids over the
blank, staring eyes, and laid the crucifix upon
the cold, ashen lips — a wild shout from the outer
world of war, told that the Ottawas had con-
quered, that the attack on the blockhouse was
joyfully at an end.
Caught, as in a death-trap, between the fierce
fire of the fortress, and the arrows and axes of
the Ottawas, the unfortunate Caughnewagas fell
before their foes, like a field of ripe corn before
the hail and wind of an autumnal hurricane.
84
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
Haukimah and a small remnant of his braves
alone survived, with Timothy and little Wilson,
Avlio seemed to bear a charmed life among that
whirlwind of whistling arrows and bullets.
Prudence Skillet, glad to escape from the sight
of the swollen, purple corpse upon the floor,
turned to one of the loopholes, and looking out,
saw Haukimah pursued by Red Snake, over the
heaps of dead and dying Indians, while Grind-
stone and the boy bravely followed in defence of
their chief.
‘‘ Look ! ” said she to Faith and Hope Leslie,
Avho clung close to her, weeping over Suitara’s
death : “ look at the size of that little imp, and
the outlandish way he is tossed off! He’s as
white as ourselves, too ; and so is the fellow be-
side him, with the ring in his nose, and a tuft on
his head, for all the world like a red-headed
woodpecker ! ”
‘‘ They are fairer than White Eagle himself ! ”
whispered Faith with a shudder, as she thought
of their dead mistress and her slain lover.
“ There ! the big chief’s down ! ” cried Prudence
from her loophole, as Haukimah fell under the
tomahawk of Red Snake, who stopped, with a
hideous yell, to scalp his victim.
The Yankee woman turned sick, as she
groaned :
‘‘Oh! that brute of an Ottawa! His hands
THE ATTACK ON THE BLOCKHOUSE. 85
are red with blood ! He’s off again, now, after
the white Injin and his little boy ! Down on
your knees, children, and pray that the poor
creeturs may ’scape him ! ”
This recourse to heaven for help, she had
learned from the devout example of Mary and
Catharine ; and, while the fervent petition of the
gentle, kneeling little girls rose up like sweetest
incense to the throne of God, Red Snake was
gaining upon the tracks of their young brother
and the good Grindstone. The latter was
making for the river-bank as fast as he could
run. There, he hoped to leap down the cliff into
one of the empty canoes of the dead Caughne-
wagas, which he knew to be rocking below.
He drove Willy before him, as he raced for his
life ; but alas ! Red Snake was one of the fleetest
runners of his tribe.
Just at the brink of the river, he overtook the
two whites. Willy had stumbled over a big
stone, and falling, tripped up Timothy, whose
pace was too rapid to resist the sudden obstacle.
Gladly, did the devoted serving-man seek to
defend the child, with his own body, from the
downward stroke of the Ottawa’s knife. Al-
though he turned the blow aside from the boy’s
heart, he could not keep it from making a deep
gash in Willy’s arm.
At the sight of the fast-flowing blood. Grind-
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
stone sprang to his feet, and rushed upon Red
Snake with the strength of an angry lion when
its whelp is attacked.
The Yankee was a larger and more powerful
man than the Indian. Clutching him by the
throat, he forced him, step by step, to the very
edge of the cliff. But, just as he managed, with
a supreme effort, to hurl the son of Pontiac over
the rocks into the river, the ground crumbled be-
neath his own feet, and he and Willy dropped to-
gether through the cavity.
Not a moment too soon, either ; for a number
of Ottawas seeing, from afar off, the peril of their
young chief, were already running to the rescue
shrieking wildly, their uplifted hatchets flashing
in the red light of the setting sun.
Beholding the three figures disappear suddenly
and simultaneously, however, from the brink of
the river, they concluded all had gone down to-
gether to a watery grave; and, with the cool
philosophy of their race, they stopped to kill
-and scalp the few Caughnewagas remaining
J diive^upon the fleld.
The spur of rock, on which Grindstone and
the boy landed in their fall, chanced to be the
reservoir whereinto the squaws of the Wj^andot
village had been wont, for years, to cast down
all the sweepings of their huts. It was covered
to the depth of several feet, with a mass of old
THE ATTACK ON THE BLOCKHOUSE.
87
mats, greasy rags, and heaps of straw, hay, and
dead leaves.
No bed of silken pillows, therefore, could have
been softer than this padded rock to the bruised
man and bleeding boy who had fallen thereon.
Better still, it was only a foot or two above
the surface of the river, where Grindstone was
surprised to see a solitary canoe rocking, as if
waiting to take them off.
There was only one man in the boat, and he (O
joy !) was a white man ! But not like any other
white man Timothy had ever seen. He was very
tall and slender, and in the prime of life. He
had a strongly-marked, merry face ; and he wore
a strange dress, and a queer cap of black fustian
on his head. His long black gown fell in loose
folds to his feet, drawn close at the waist by a
leathern belt. In this belt, was stuck a big, brass
cross with a figure of the Kedeemer on it ; and
a string of wooden beads, with brass medals fast-
ened to them, hung down at his side.
In spite of all these queer things, nevertheless,
there was something in the stranger’s face that
made Timothy put trust in him.
He beckoned him to push his boat closer ; and,
when the strange man had reached the foot of a
sort of natural staircase in the rocks, of which
the ledge where Grindstone now stood formed
almost the last step^ the Yankee leaned over, and
88
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
softly begged him to come up, and help him lift
the wounded boy into the boat.
The stranger answered him in English, with a
strong French accent ; and, making fast the canoe
to an iron ring in the rocks, climbed up to Wil-
ly’s side.
The poor child had fainted from loss of blood,
and lay upon the ground, the image of death.
While the man in the black gown, kneeling be-
side him, tore up his pocket-handkerchief, and
quickly and skilfully bound up the boy’s wounded
arm, he questioned Timothy as to the fight at
the blockhouse, and all the doings of that day
at the Wyandot village.
He had heard the noise of guns, he said, as he
rowed down the river ; and was just making for
the bank, when the body of Ked Snake came
flying from the rocks above.
“ I would have begged the honor of his ac-
quaintance,” said the stranger, brokenly, and
with a funny smile that set his black eyes to
sparkling; “but he gave me no opportunity.
He had no sooner touched the water, than he
swam away, like a fish, to yonder point, where
he disappeared.”
“ Then, he escaped after all ? ” muttered Timo-
thy, staring grimly and ruefully at the spot in-
dicated, where the brushwood grew thickly
doAvn to the water’s edge.
THE ATTACK OK THE BLOCKHOUSE. 89
“ It is possible,” said the stranger, politely,
‘‘some of these natives — ciel! but they are
sometimes hard to kill ! ”
“ This one seems to have nine lives, like a cat,”
growled Timothy ; and then as Willy began to
show some signs of reviving strength, he found
himself telling this kind stranger not only all
the events of the day, but the whole history of
his adventures with the boy since the hour of
their capture at Swan Island.
“ Thank the good God for all His mercies ! ”
said the stranger, rising to his feet and crossing
himself, while he lifted his queer cap from his
head, and looked up with a beautiful smile to
heaven.
“Are you the parson of these parts, sir?”
asked Timothy, as the gentleman, having brought
some water from the river in a deep shell, poured
into it a little cordial from a pocket-flask, which
he gave to Willy, now sitting up, and looking
very white and weak.
“ Not the parson,” returned the other, with a
pleasant smile, “ but one of the priests — Father
Peter, at your service, from the Jesuit mission
up the river.”
“ Oh ! ” said Timothy — surprise and dismay
manifest in his round eyes and dropped jaw.
“ The dew begins to fall,” went on the rever-
end gentleman, composedly : “ and our little boy
90
LOT LEvSLIE’S folks.
looks as if he needed better attention than I can
give him here.”
“You’re right there, sir,” agreed the Yankee,
recovering himself : “ and ” — looking anxiously
around at the brushwood ambush — “that pesky
redskin may come at us, agin, at any minute.”
“ Have no fears,” said the priest. “ Only help
me to get the boy down into my boat, and I’ll
row you both up to the mission. There, you can
have rest and food, and the child will soon be
healed of his wound b}^ our good Brother Borgia.”
“ Oh ! ” said Timothy again ; and as he depos-
ited Willy in the bottom of the canoe, the child
dreamily heard him muttering : “ Jiminy-jinks !
this may turn out to be worse than being a
Caughnewaga ! ”
CHAPTER YIII.
WHAT HAPPENED AT THREE RIVERS.
Long and loud were the cries of little Love
Leslie, and bitter were her tears, when the Yan-
kee agent hurried her away from her beautiful
home, only to find that neither her mamma nor
the carriage were waiting for her in the narrow,
back alley. She would have gone on making
such an uproar as to bring to their doors the
poor dwellers in those squalid huts, and who, at
that hour, were all busy with the boiling of their
onion soups, had not Wheelwright turned on her
the fiercest of faces, and growling like a wolf,
threatened, if she made another sound, to whip
her within an inch of her life.
She was a brave little creature, as well as
clever, and although the man’s dreadful squint
and forbidding hare-lip filled her with terror, she
saw clearly that she must control herself.
Allowing him to wrap her from head to foot
in an old black cape that had once (although she
knew it not) belonged to her own mother, she
choked back her sobs, as he led her, at last, to a
shabby, close-covered wagon on runners — for the
spring snow was still upon the country roads —
91
92
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
and which, with its strong team of native ponies,
waited for them at the end of the lane.
Into this, he had no sooner lifted her, than she
was caught in the arms of a man sitting well back
in the inner darkness, who squeezed her wildly
to his breast, and kissed her pretty face again and
again.
The child struggled dumbly in her fright, and
tried hard to get away from him, but he only
pressed her the closer, and kept groaning, bro-
kenly : “ My child ! my baby ! my own motherless
little Love ! ”
“ I’m not your child ! ” said the little one stoutly,
in excellent French. ‘‘ My name is Marianne St.
Ange, and I have a papa of my own, and a dear,
sweet, beautiful mamma in the big house at
home ! — Oh ! please, I want to go home to them
right away ! ” she cried, bursting afresh into
tears ; for, as her eyes grew accustomed to the
dim light in the wagon, she saw that the man who
claimed her so positively as his child was a poor,
forlorn-looking creature, in patched clothes that
smelled strongly of garlic and stale tobacco smoke.
Lot was not prepared to find her the spoiled,
saucy darling she was. Her new life at the St.
Anges’ had made her very dainty in her tastes
and ways. More than that, it had driven from
her mind all recollection of her old island home,
of her lost parents and relations.
WHAT HAPPENED AT THREE RIVERS. 93
No natural affection, no instinct of blood, now
stirred in her breast at the tears and caresses of
her poor, disappointed father.
His sentimental emotion, coupled with the
proud indifference of the midget, seemed to irri-
tate Wheelwright beyond control.
“ Don’t set snivellin’ there ! ” he snarled to Lot,
as he jumped into the wagon : but wrap the brat
in a blanket, and lay her down among the straw.
A lusty specimen, she is ! Drat her ! give me the
lines ! ” — and with a smart crack of the whip, the
Canadian ponies pricked up their ears, shook
their rough manes, and trotted away with their
burden up the road by the St. Lawrence river.
It was a long and weary journey to the town
of Three Eivers. There, several other New Eng-
land captives, whom the Yankee agent had either
bought or stolen from their French masters, were
waiting for him to convey them home to the col-
onies.
Several times, he halted by the way to refresh
his horses, and buy food for the party, as well as
“ sweeties ” and toys for the little girl.
With these, he coaxed her along, telling her
that a relation of her French father lived at
Three Eivers ; and that, after spending a few
days with his children, she should be brought
safely back to her home in Montreal.
Having been fooled by him once before, little
94
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
Love did not put much faith in AV heel vv right’s
statements or promises, but hard luck, and vary-
ing experiences had sharpened her wits, and made
her precociously politic.
She had now sense enough to keep quiet in try-
ing circumstances, nursing her dolls and eating
her candy, while she cuddled close to Leslie’s
side, with the innate feeling, poor child ! that he
was kinder, and more to be trusted than the
agent.
On the road. Wheelwright heard of one or
two other captives, along the St. Lawrence, whom
he concluded to ransom or rescue as quickly as
possible.
Accordingly, when the big inn at Three Eivers
was reached at last, he left Lot and his little
daughter in the care of the innkeeper and his
wife, and hurried back, the next day, to the de-
liverance of the other white slaves.
The inn, Vagneau d^or (or the Golden Lamb),
was very full, just then, of traders and released
captives.
As the latter were poor and unable to pay for
their keep, it was the custom of the place to give
them work in the kitchen, or around the stables,
so that they might not eat their bread in idleness
— until such time as Wheelwright should return
to carry them off to JSTew England.
Thus it fell out, that Lot Leslie, on his arrival
WHAT HAPPENED AT THREE RIVERS. 95
at the Golden Lamb, was set to chopping wood
and fetching water for the kitchen wenches ; and,
as little Love soon discovered that the horrid man
with the hare-lip had again told her a lie, and
that the innkeeper (if he were indeed a cousin of
her French father — which she already doubted — ),
had certainly no little children for her to play
with, the small maid was left very much to her-
self and her own devices.
A favorite fairy-tale she had heard, long ago,
at bedtime, from Nurse Colette, often came to
her mind, as she sat on the sunny step of the
inn, rocking her doll upon her knee.
It was the story of a little princess, who was
once stolen from her father’s palace, and carried
off by bad fairies to an ogre’s castle. But, the
castle gate being left conveniently open, one
morning, the little princess escaped from the gar-
den (where she was being fattened into a delicious
tid-bit for the ogre’s table), and made her way
into the public road.
She walked a long, long while in the dust and
heat of a summer’s day, ready to faint with fa-
tigue and fright; but, after awhile, a golden
chariot drawn by milk-white horses, came rolling
toward her, along the road.
It stopped close to the little runaway, and the
door was opened by a fairy footman in a livery
of pale blue and silver lace. Out, popped a lovely
96
LOT LESLIE’S EOLKS.
little lady in a trailing cloak of whitest minever,
over a royal purple brocade, sparkling with dia-
monds.
A crown of gold and brilliants was on her
charming head, and a silver wand in her tiny,
white-gloved hand.
This was the princess’s fairy godmother.
She had been on a visit to Queen Mab at the
time of her godchild’s abduction, and was only
now returning after a delightful sojourn at the
court.
She touched the runaway with her wand ; and
at once, her dusty rags were changed into a robe
of rose-pink satin, covered with jewels ; her coarse
shoes became pink velvet slippers studded with
pearls; and the fairy godmother, whirling her
into the shining coach, drove her back, splendid
and triumphant, to her father’s palace, where she
lived ever afterward in peace and plenty, while
the ogre died unhappy and hungry.
A bright thought came suddenly to little Love,
sitting alone upon the sunny doorstep.
“ Why couldn’t /run away like Princess Belle-
helle f ” mused she : why couldn’t I find my
way back, like her, to my own dear home ? ”
Every one was busy in the inn, and around it.
Lot Leslie had just turned the corner 6f the path
from the great old well, carrying his buckets of
water to the back kitchen. No human eye was
WHAT HAPPElSrED AT THREE RIVERS. 97
watching the little fearless girl. She drew closer
the old black cape on her shoulders, tied tighter
the strings of her garden hat, and trotted off
alone down the road.
The Princess Belle-helle had started again upon
her travels. But, instead of * the old-time fairy
godmother in ermine and jeweled brocade, a
very different sort of deliverer was, that mo-
ment, driving to meet the runaway.
It was a bright, spring day.
There was still some snow on the roads, and
in the shady spots ; but the sun shone gloriously,
and a soft wind was blowing from the south.
The trees showed a faint hint of green ; and,
here and there, a stray bird twittered among the
branches.
Little Love trudged bravely along, humming
to herself brokenly, in baby fashion, some verses
of an old French cantique to Mary, Queen of
Heaven, which may be rendered thus in English :
“ Blessed are we, the children of a Mother
Who, in her grace surpasses all ;
Hasten, then haste, with gladness to her altar ;
There, at her feet, in meekness, fall.
** Slo'vyly the winter faded from the mountain,
Leaving the streams all chainless, free ;
Buds of the meadows, waters of the fountain,
All are waking. Mother, to thee ! ”
98
LOT LESLIE’S FOtKS.
The child had just begun to sing the last
stanza :
** We, too, will praise thee, sweet and stainless Mother,
We will unite with flow’r and bird.
And, round thine altars thro’ all the sacred seasons,
Shall lays of thy glory be heard!”
when, looking back over her shoulder, to make
sure of her safety, she beheld Lot Leslie come to
the inn door, and, with one swift, wild glance
about him, plunge madly after her down the
road.
Little Love crossed herself devoutly (as she
had been taught by Madame to do, in moments
of danger), and broke into a frightened run.
She saw a dark vehicle coming rapidly towards
her from the other direction.
Could it be the chariot of the fairy god-
mother? Would the lovely little lady descend
from it, in her furs and jewels, and touch her
with her silvery wand ?
Alas ! as the vehicle drew nearer, she saw it
was only a shabby sleigh.
In it, was an ugly old squaw, driven by a
young Indian sanop^ who whooped loudly as he
discovered Lot making chase for his little daugh-
ter, who was striving with all her speed to escape
him.
Quick as lightning, the old squaw leaned over
WHAT HAPPENED AT THREE RIVERS. 99
the side of the sleigh, caught Love from the
ground to a seat beside her, and cried out to
the young Indian to turn his horse about, and
drive like the wind.
In less time than it takes to tell it, the savages
were dashing along the road to Quebec, bearing
the white child far away from her distracted
father.
Old N’-o-kum (for it was she) was well aware
of the value of her prize.
She knew the little girl to be the adopted
daughter of the great merchant ; and she was
sure Louis St. Ange would pay a rich ransom to
the one who restored the child to Madame’s arms.
The Indians of those days often stole away
captives they had themselves sold to the Cana-
dians, in order to extort presents for their re-
turn, from their French masters, to whom they
had grown either precious or useful.
Therefore, the old squaw smiled kindly upon
poor little Love, who was shedding silent tears
of fright and disappointment.
It was all so different from the story of Prin-
cess Belle-helle. No lovely robe of pink satin
covered with jewels ; no pink velvet slippers
studded with pearls !
She was still in her torn and dirty clothes ;
and this ugly old woman who held fast to her,
must surely be the sister of the ogre who car-
100
LOT Leslie’s folks.
ried off Belle-helle. In spite of all her tears and
trouble, however, she fell asleep, after awhile,
euddled down under the strong-smelling buffalo
robes, with her head in N’-o-kum’s lap. And
thus, sleeping heavily, and dreaming broken
dreams of Madame and Margot, Colette and Rose-
Marie, with wild interludes of being chased by
Wheelwright and Lot Leslie, the poor little crea-
ture knew not when the sleigh had stopped ; but
awoke, next morning, to find herself in the In-
dian mission at Lorette.
She cried bitterly while IST’-o-kum gave her a
plentiful breakfast of boiled hominy and maple
syrup.
She missed the white rolls and toothsome jel-
lies— the damask, silver, and crystal of her Mont-
real breakfast table; and she begged the old
woman, with many a winning caress, to take her
back to her pretty mamma.
But the wily squaw would only grunt from
time to time : Awis wabanh ! (after to-mor-
row,) ” or ‘‘Panima—panima ! (by and by, by
and by ! ) ”
Seeing that the child still kept on sobbing and
grieving, N’-o-kum took her out into the streets
of the Indian village, where the savages flocked
around her, and tried to pacify and please her.
She was such a pretty child with her big,
black eyes and clear pink and white skin that the
WHAT HAPPENED AT THREE RIVERS. 101
Indians never tired looking at her. It was one
of their delights to catch up her long, soft, red
curls, and pass them through their fingers.
If Love had been older and wiser she might
have had some terrible fears and suspicions of
their scalping-knives, at these moments. But,
ignorance is bliss ”
oftentimes, and the little girl only noticed that
none of the females of the tribe had red hair like
her own. She supposed that that was what
made her ringlets attractive to these queer peo-
pie, who brought their sticks of charcoal, and
drew pictures of deers, wolves, bears and fishes
on her soiled white skirt.
When they proceeded to paint her fair cheeks
in the Indian fashion, she cried aloud with re^
sentment ; and no one could quiet her, until a
boy of ten, or so, ran up, and rubbed the yellow
paint from her soft cheek with a corner of bis
blanket.
This boy was then given her for a playmate-
There was something about him that bad
drawn her to him from the first moment she
saw him.
He was almost as fair as herself, yet he was
dressed like a little Indian chief. He wore a
ruffled shirt, leggings trimmed with b^ads and
many-colored ribbons, and a handsome
102
LOT LESLIE^S FOLKS.
embroidered moccasins. On his head, he wore an
otter-skin cap, with a tall bunch of scarlet plumes
in its front.
A handsomer, or more manly, little fellow it
would have been hard to find, with his bright,
dark eyes and curling auburn hair. He was as
supple as a reed, and as straight as an arrow.
Very kind and gentle, he was, to little Love.
Taking her by the hand, he led her away from
the other Indians to the best-looking house in
the village, standing close to a large, frame
building, on top of which was a big yellow
cross. This last was the Koman Catholic chapel
of St. Anthony — for the tribe of St. Francis was
a Catholic one, converted to Christianity, many
years before, by the Franciscan Fathers, known
as the ‘‘ Recollects^
The mission was, at present, in the care of the
Jesuits.
When the boy in the ruffled shirt and beaded
leggings rapped at the door of the house next the
church, an old man in a black gown and skull-
cap came out, and smiled at the children in a
friendly way.
‘^Well, Joseph?’’ said he to the boy, in
French, what is it now ? ”
“ Is Pere Eugene at home yet, Brother ? ”
questioned the lad in the same tongue.
‘‘Nay, nay,” replied the old man, shaking his
WHAT HAPPEKED AT THPvEE RIVERS. 103
wise head, “the Father is on the Easter visita-
tion to many scattered tribes. It takes a long
time to look them all up, and attend to their
souls. It may be weeks before he gets back.
But, who is this little lady you have brought us,
this morning ? ”
“ I know not,’’ returned the boy, cautiously, in
the Huron tongue. “ N’-o-kum fetched her to the
village, last night.”
“ She is a pretty little girl,” said the Brother :
whereat. Love guessing from their looks and
words that they talked about herself, burst into
tears, and began to sob :
“ I want my mamma ! I want to go back to
my dear, sweet mamma, and to papa, and Mar-
got, and Colette, and Rose-Marie ! ”
“ Take her to see St. Anthony, Joseph,” said
the good Brother, rather flustered by the child’s
tears and outcries. “Teach her that he is the
saint who finds all that is lost for those that in-
voke him ; ” and away he bustled back to . his
kitchen, whence the smell of burning meat gave
him to know that the dinner of bear’s flesh was
being overdone on the neglected spit.
Joseph soothed and petted his little companion
as well as he could, gathering some early wild
flowers for her, and leading her by the hand to
a circular plot of ground, in front of the church,
railed in by a very pretty rustic fence.
104
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
In the centre of this, was a pedestal of stone,
some four feet high, on which, under a hood of
native oak, stood a beautiful statue of a saint,
bearing in his arms an image of the Infant Jesus.
This was St. Anthony of Padua, in his brown
habit with its cincture of knotted cord, his ton-
sure and his rosary. His face was smiling and
gentle ; and the lovely face of the Holy Babe in
his embrace, looked up at him with an expression
of confiding tenderness, very touching to see.
Around the base of the statue, some words
were printed in Latin, which neither Joseph nor
Love could read.
If the little girl could have made them out,
she would have jumped for joy. As it was, how-
ever, she followed the boy very soberly, when
he unlatched the gate in the rustic fence, and
led her into the enclosure.
There was a kneeling- bench before the feet of
the statue, large enough to accommodate two
persons.
Joseph drew his new friend down beside him
on this jprie-dieu ; and began to explain
to her all he had been taught about St. Anthony,
and of his power to find lost persons and things
for those who pray to him devoutly.
While the little girl listened with deep inter-
est, lisping after him her simple petition to the
Wonder-worker of Padua, to restore to her, by
WHAT HAPPENED AT THREE RIVERS. 105
his prayers, her lost parents and friends, there
Avere others of her blood who AA-ere beginning, at
that hour, to draw nearer to her, in the Faith of
Christ — the faith of that great Household, Avhose
children all rejoice in a common Father and
Mother — a Divine Father, a,. heavenly Mother,
devoted, unfailing, imperishable.
In the lodge of the Avidow, Mary Tarbuki,
Faith and Hope Leslie had found a peaceful
home, after the battle of the blockhouse, on the
banks of the Detroit.
Prudence Skillet was already there, as the
faithful slave of Mary and Catharine. When
she represented to her mistress the sad state of
the tAvo little girls Avhom poor Suitara’s death
had left at the mercy of the fierce OttaAva
squaAvs — Pontiac’s many wives — the saintly
Wyandot woman and her daughter eagerly
agreed to buy the young Yankees from Sui-
tara’s stepmother for a handful of plumes and
trinkets.
A zeal and piety like those of the early Chris-
tians burned brightly in the breasts of Mary and
Catharine. They hungered for the salvation of
souls ; and it Avas mainly the hope of leading the
Avhite sisters to the True Faith (of Avhich Pru-
dence, they suspected, had already begun to see
the force and beauty) that induced them to pur-
chase the tAVO girls from the Ottawas.
106 LOT Leslie’s folks.
They knew them, and Prudence, as yet, only
by the Indian names Suitara had given them.
Not since the fatal morning when the young
Leslies had been torn from their happy home on
Swan Island, had they known such true peace and
joy as they now tasted in the lodge of the Tar-
bukis. Suitara had not been a cruel mistress ; but,
nevertheless, their daily life had often been made
miserable for them by her caprices, her jealous
moods, her many savage tricks and turns of
fancy.
How different all was in the home of Mary and
Catharine ! How sweet it was to serve these
gentle, unselfish women, who bore in their beau-
tiful faces the peace and love of God ! It was
easy to see that they sought Him and His divine
Will, with a single heart, by day and night — that,
like their beloved Master, they went about doing
good continually to their people.
The baptism of the Princess in the blockhouse
had made a powerful impression on Faith and
Hope.
Catharine had looked to them, that gloomy
day, as an angel of light and mercy.
The unearthly peace and brightness that set-
tled on Suitara’s brow at the moment of death,
had seemed merely a reflection of the lovely light
that always shone from Catharine’s tranquil face.
Her mother, “ Mistress Tarbucket,” as Prudence
WHAT HAPPENED AT THREE RIVERS. 107
called her — Omi-Mee (or the Dove) as the tribe
named her — was a simple, fervent soul, whose
life was one long act of prayer, penance, and
good works.
Even old Why-washi-brooch^ Catharine’s blind
grandmother — Anne by baptism, but whom Miss
Skillet hilariously styled “ old White-wash Brush ”
— edified all around her by the singular perfec- 1
tion of her life. Sitting constantly on a mat, in a
corner of her daughter’s lodge, telling her prayer-
beads, or speaking to the young people when
they drew near her, in words of living faith and
glowing piety, it seemed to the little white girls
as if a very seraph were hidden in the homely
shape of the old brown, wrinkled, sightless
woman.
Her knowledge of divine truths was remarka-
ble— plainly, a special gift of the Holy Ghost ;
and the three Yankee slaves learned from her
grave, gentle lips, many precious things about
God and salvation, of which they had been ut-
terly ignorant all their lives.
These, they could not very well escape listen-
ing to, as the blind grandmother held a regular
Catechism class, each day, in her corner of the
lodge, to which the little Wyandots were fetched
by their mothers; who daily resorted to Mary
Tarbuki for medicine, advice, consolation in their
trials, or reconciliation with their enemies.
108
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
Mary was, indeed, almost worshipped by those
simple children of the forest, who recognized in
her, solely by their Christian instincts,
** A perfect woman, nobly plann’d,
To warn, to comfort, and command ;
And yet, a spirit still and bright.
With something of an angel light.”
Under the quiet roof of this dear Omi-Mee^ the
fall and winter months passed peacefully away ;
and if, at times, Faith or little Hope fretted
meekly in secret for the old Swan Island home
and the dear ones they had lost, if they longed
to be out, once more, on the wide, grey beach,
gathering shells among the rocks, or running
breezy, rosy-cheeked races in the blithe salt winds
— Prudence, good woman, was ever at hand,
ready to quiet them at night, when she soothed
them to sleep, or cheer them, by day, when they
labored at her side, with her encouraging quota-
tions from the Bible, such as : “ When thou pass-
eth through the water, I will be with thee, and
through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee ; ”
or, again : ‘‘ He hath showed thee, O man, what
is good ; and what doth the Lord require of thee,
but to do justly, and love mercy, and walk humbly
with thy God ? Hear ye the rod, and who hath
appointed it.”
Thus blindfolded, as it were, and quite uncon-
WHAT HAPPENED AT THREE RIVERS. 109
scious of the fate before them, the three slaves
were being led by their household angels, (as
were many, of old, in the days of early Christian
Rome) — conducted through the strange, quiet
darkness of their time of bondage into the true
freedom of the children of God — into the bright-
ness of that city which “ needeth not sun nor
moon to shine in it : for the glory of God hath
enlightened it, and the Lamb is the lamp thereof.”
CHAPTEE IX.
THE MISSION OF THE ASSUMPTION.
Night had fallen by the time Father Peter’s
canoe shot into the bay, shaped like a half-moon,
and washing what was then known as Montreal
Point, but now marked on our maps as Sandwich,
in Ontario.
Timothy Grindstone, who sat in the prow of
the boat, holding in his arms the almost lifeless
form of little Wilson Leslie, was surprised to see
a number of bright lights, flashing here and there,
along the shore, dancing through the darkness,
like so many shooting meteors, or wandering
will-o’-the-wisps.
Stepping from the boat to the beach, he saw
that these were torches carried by Indians, as
the Christian Hurons came running quickly from
their wigwams to welcome the priest.
The news of the fight at the blockhouse had
reached them through some runners of their
tribe (for the Wyandots and the Hurons formed,
after all, but one great family) ; and these men
were eager to hear details of the battle.
Father Peter was deaf to their questions, how-
110
THE MISSION OE THE ASSUMPTION. Ill
ever, until they had fetched him a sort of canvas
stretcher, made from an old sail, on which he
laid the limp figure of little Wilson, bidding
them carry him gently up to the mission house.
The priest, with Timothy, led the way.
Some three hundred feet above the shore, and
overlooking the strait, stood then a good-sized
building known as the Huron Mission-house of
Detroit. Close by, was the mission church of our
Lady of the Assumption, dedicated less than fifty
years before.
It was built of hewed, upright timber ; and was
about one hundred and fifty feet long. There
was a large bell in its belfry, which began to
ring just as Father Peter and his party drew
near.
Immediately, those who carried the stretcher
stood still ; and all fell upon their knees save
Timothy, who did not know that it was the
Angelas bell, announcing, even in that wild spot,
the Incarnation of the Eternal Son of God, and
the glory of His Virgin Mother.
The church-door stood open, and Father Peter,
lifting his cap, knelt on the threshold, and said
the prayers aloud — all, save Timothy and Wilson,
responding with solemn devotion.
Somehow or other, it moved Grindstone al-
most to tears, to look on those kneeling savages,
bowing their heads, and uniting in fervent prayer
112
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
with their priest. And he was near enough to
one of the torches, to Avatch the Father gazing
with adoring eyes into the fragrant darkness of
the church up to the dim outline of the white
altar, with its perpetual lamp burning before it,
like a holy star.
He Avas still pondering over the scene, Avhen
he found himself, Avith the others, before the big
Mission house, Avith its massive stone chimneys
and dormer windows, brought into clear vieAV by
the light of the full moon, but just arisen.
On the step, in that flood of silvery light,
stood a slight, venerable man, with the face of a
scholar and a saint. He wore a black gown and
cap similar to those of Father Peter.
This Avas the Superior of the mission — Father
Armand of the Society of Jesus. He still bore
traces of the paralysis, that had stricken him
doAvn, nine years previous.
He gave a warm, gentle welcome to Timothy :
and (lame as he Avas) helped with his own hands
to carry poor little Wilson into the Infirmary of
the Mission — a long, exquisitely neat room, Avith
a double roAv of little Avhite beds.
On one of these. Father Peter laid the wounded
boy ; and Brother Borgia, then in charge of the
sick, proceeded to examine and dress his bleeding
arm. This done, and his face bathed Avith a so^
lution of Adnegar and Avater, the little felloAV
THE MISSION OF THE ASSUMPTION. 113
opened his eyes with a deep sigh of relief. It
was the first time he had rested on a comfortable
bed since the awful morning of the surprise at
Swan Island.
Looking languidly before him, he saw on the
opposite wall, a great crucifix of carved wood.
At its base, burned a taper-lamp of scarlet glass.
The red flame threw its flickering light upon the
pierced feet of the Christ, until they seemed to
be bathed in blood.
‘‘ Who is that Man, Timmie ? And why does
He bleed?” whispered the boy to Timothy, who
was bending anxiously over him: ‘‘Have the
Indians wounded Him, too ? ”
“ Be still, dear child ! You will learn all about
it when you are well,” put in Father Peter, who
had caught the faint, pathetic whisper. “ Give
him a sleeping-draught. Brother; and then, we
will leave him in your hands for a good night’s
rest. Dieu vous garde^ cher enfant ! ” — with a
kindly touch on the boy’s pale brow.
And while Brother Borgia lifted Willy in his
strong arms, and gave him the draught, the two
priests led Grindstone, rather reluctantly away,
to take supper with them in the refectory close
at hand.
Never had poor Timothy sat down to table in
company of such perfect gentlemen as Father
Armand and Father Peter. But they soon put
114
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
him completely at his ease ; and he was surprised
to find himself laughing heartily at Father
Peter’s merry sallies, while he never tired look-
ing at the grave, gentle eyes of the quiet Supe-
rior— eyes that seemed to be always gazing into
the unseen delights of the Other World.
After an excellent supper, which his hard day .
of fighting and exhausting excitement made
very acceptable, Timothy was given a pipe of
good tobacco, and invited to join the priests
around the blazing fire.
Seated in the only easy-chair the room con-
tained, Father Peter drew him on to repeat to
the Superior, the story he had told him, that af-
ternoon, on the cliff bj^ the river. And, as Tim-
othy described the dreadful attack on the Swan
Island fort, and the slaughter of old Captain
James Wilson and his wife, Father Peter asked
many questions about Lot Leslie’s folks ; and
wrote down in a little book, the names and ages
of all the members of that scattered family.
“We’ve never seen any of them since we
parted in the boats,” said Grindstone sadly.
“They may all be dead, now, save Willy and
me ! And what are we ? ” (he added with
some bitterness as he looked down at his blood-
stained rags and torn moccasins) : “ what are we^
but a pair of half -naked savages ? We’ve lost all
likeness to civilized humans.”
THE MlSSlOiS^ OF THE ASSUMPTION. 115
Then, he went on to remark how gladly he
would swap his Indian toggery, on the spot, for
a decent suit of white men’s clothes. All the
more, because Haukimah and most of his nation
had been slain, that day, in the fight at the
blockhouse.
But Father Armand knew well the habits of
the natives, and how strong and solemn were
the ties of adoption into any of the tribes. He
advised Timothy to have patience, and wait un-
til he was sure that the vengeance of the sur-
viving Caughnewagas would not pursue him and
little Leslie to the death. It was the custom
of the tribes (he said) to follow, like sleuth-
hounds, and to torture and kill any ‘‘ pale-face ”
who deserted from the camp after having been
once adopted, as they had been, in the place of
their illustrious dead.
“ Talk about standin’ in dead men’s shoes ! ”
said Timothy, with a grim laugh, “why, sirs, it
ain’t a touch to meanderin’ around in a dead
Caughnewaga’s moccasins ! ” — but he was forced
to submit to his fate, seeing how wise and rea-
sonable were the Superior’s arguments. He
contented himself, therefore, with drawing out
the silver rings from his nose and ears, secretly
resolving to do the same bold office for Willy on
the morrow.
And, Father Peter, observing presently that
116
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
the poor fellow began to yawn a great deal,
and to grow very stiff and drowsy in the unus-
age of a soft chair and a comfortable fireside,
led him away, right willingly, to bed, in one of
the little white cots close to Wilson’s, where he
was soon wrapped in a deep, refreshing sleep.
The silvery sound of a chiming bell awoke
Timothy very early in the morning ; and, steal-
ing softly to the window, he was surprised to
see the two priests in their black gowns and
cloaks already quitting the house, and making
their way down the road.
Some impulse moved him to follow them.
Seeing that Willy was still breathing quietly
in a sound, restful slumber, Timothy caught up
his blanket, and crept out to the hall, where he
found the great entrance door unfastened.
He passed through it into the road, along
which were hurrying many Hurons — men,
women, and children.
All seemed bound for one common point.
Some of these eyed Grindstone with natural cu-
riosity. Others recognized him at once as the
white Caughnewaga the Black Kobe had brought
home with him, the past night, in his canoe.
No one spoke to or molested him ; but he
kept pace with the swiftest, until they ended by
showing him the way to the big church near the
river.
THE MISSION OF THE ASSUMPTIO:S\ 117
Timothy thought to himself that it was a
mighty queer time of the day to go to meeting.
He pushed on with the crowd, however : and,
once in the church, he got behind one of the
thick wooden pillars that supported the roof,
where he stood upright, seeing everything, but
himself quite hidden from sight.
When he gazed curiously about him, he found
he had no need to hide himself from view.
Nobody looked at him — nobody looked at
anything but the white altar, on which candles
were burning, and some strange objects were
shining.
Once, when a boy, he had gone to meeting in
a country town. What had struck him, there,
had been the eas}^ sociability of all concerned.
The congregation had chatted, and exchanged
bits of gossip in the pews : the parson had
walked down the aisle, shaking hands with old
and young, and saying a word, here and there,
about the weather, the crops, and what not.
There was nothing solemn — nothing worship-
ful.
In this Indian Mission church, all seemed ab-
sorbed in the service ; every eye was riveted on
what was going on at the altar.
And Timothy, looking steadily in that direc-
tion, thought it the strangest sight he had ever
seen.
118
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
A white man was there, old and grey, and
dressed up in a black gown, surmounted by an-
other of white linen and lace, over which he
wore a queer green silk overcoat, without sleeves,
and covered with gold embroidery.
He was as busy as he could be at the altar,
now reading out of a big, gilded book, again,
doing something Avith a golden drinking-cup and
a little round gold plate.
He kept bowing, and turning, and saying queer
words softly, in a tongue unknown to Timothy ;
and two little Indian boys, wearing long scarlet
gowns, gave him, at one time, what looked like
wine and water out of a brace of small glass
bottles from a table close by ; and at another,
offered him Avater to wash his fingers with, and
a clean napkin to dry them.
After awhile, a little bell rang, up near the al-
tar; and, at the sound, all the people in the
church fell doAvn upon their faces.
Timothy, also, dropped doAvn upon his knees.
He could not help himself. The silence was
profound. He was trembling from head to foot.
He had a strange feeling in his untutored heart
that Something A^ery solemn and aAvful Avas go-
ing on at that lighted altar !
Some One was there Whom he did not hnow^ as
yet : hut Whom^ for the first time, he burned to
know^ and love, and serve, all the days of his lifel
THE MISSIOJS^ OF THE ASSUMPTIOIS'. 119
Full of these strange thoughts and desires, and
bewildered by all he saw, it was a long while be-
fore he recognized the old man in the green silk
robe, who lifted the white Wafer and the golden
Cup, and bowed down, adoringly, before Them.
It was long (or it seemed long^to him), before he
understood that he was really Father Armand,
the Superior of the mission — the priest with the
wonderful eyes.
But he had a great many questions to ask
Father Peter, after breakfast, that morning, when
the merry, sociable priest took him to see the
great Forge (with its brawny armorer) that had
been builded near the crescent bay, and where
weapons and farming tools were made for all the
male adults of the mission, white or red.
Later in the day, the priest brought him to the
Mission storehouse, to see Brother La Tour and
his helper. Brother Kegis, working busily among
their huge piles of furs and blankets, their well-
filled shelves of paints, cutlery, cotton, and spark-
ling trinkets.
Here, (thanks to the wise forethought of Father
Armand !) the Huron hunters could dispose of
their peltry to the English traders, without risk-
ing, to do so, a long, dangerous journey through
hostile territory.
When Timothy and the priest entered the big
store, it was thronged with traders, hunters, run-
120
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
ners of the woods {coureurs de hois)^ or bush-
rangers.
A motley crowd, they were, sitting or lounging
about on bales and boxes, most of them in blanket-
coats, or frocks of smoked deerskin, their rifles
beside them, and a knife and a hatchet in each
stout belt.
In their midst, a young Huron hunter, tall,
shapely, and handsome as a bronze statue, was
questioning Brother Kegis as to why some men
(like himself) were red of skin, while other some
(like Kegis) were white as the snows of winter.
Before the busy lay-Brother could make fitting
reply, a bold, clear voice rose out of the crowd,
and smote all the rest into silence, as one of the
traders began to recite, in French, an old Indian
legend.
It was an odd, musical rhyme, given rapidly,
with striking gestures, and with many a flash of
white teeth and brilliant eyes in the speaker’s
dark Canadian face.
Stripped of some of their native grace and
force, the words might be made to read thus in
homely English :
Before her father’s wigwam, painted golden by the sunset,
In scarlet blanket, crouching near the trader’s blue-eyed mate,
Swa-nee, the chieftain’s daughter — her black hair bound with
wampum.
Watched stealthily a group beyond the palisado’s gate.
THE MISSION OF THE ASSUMPTION. 121
<* Her father in the foreground, brown and brawny, plumed and
painted,
Ev’ry inch a kingly savage, with his scalp-knife in his belt.
Pointed out a distant valley to a fair New England stranger.
Whose negro servant near them, by his master’s trappings,
knelt.
“ Closely watching, like a panther, her velvet eyes half-open.
The little Swa-nee murmured to the trader’s wife, apart ;
‘Brown as autumn leaves, my father; white as snow, the pale-
faced chieftain ;
Black, the other, as the storm-cloud ere the lightning rends its
heart !
“ ‘ Tell me, woman, wise in magic, hath Manitou a meaning
When He paints the warriors of the nations, white, and
brown, and black ? ’
— The trader’s blue-eyed helpmate smiling answered, sideways
leaning,
As she shifted to her bosom the baby at her back:
“ ‘ Swa-nee, it is a legend, by the Seminoles narrated.
Told at night around their camp-fires, where the trader’s rest
hath been :
That Manitou, when earth was new, three white-skinn’d braves
created.
And led them to a little lake, bidding them wash therein.
“ * The first sprang promptly at his word, and, plunging, came out
fairer
Than when he entered; but his bath had troubled all the
lake ;
And he who followed, white at first, was stained with copp’rish
laver ;
While he who lingered last, came forth as black as loam could
make !
122
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
** * Then, Manitou cast down upon the grass before the bathers,
Three packages, safe hidden in the bison’s swarthy skin:
And bade them make their choice. ’Tis said, ihe black man
seized the hugest.
And op’ning, found the iron spade, the hoe, and rake, within.
** * The red man grasped his pack, in turn ; and lo ! within it, hid-
den.
Were fishing-rod and tomahawk, were bow and arrows bright;
While, within the snake-skin wrappings which, at last, the
Pale Face lifted.
Were ink-horn, quill, and parchment — a burden, strangely
light !
“ ‘ So thou seest, chieftain’s daughter ! ’ laughed the bold wife of the
trader.
As she sprang upon her feet, and slung the baby at her back :
‘Thou seest, little Swa-nee, that Manitou hath meaning
When he paints your warriors brown, ours white, and others,
black ! ’ ”
Some of the French traders clapped their hands
in praise of their fellow, as he finished his re-
cital ; but most of the Indians sat silent, motion-
less— staring ahead of them either sullenly or
stupidly.
The young Huron who had questioned Brother
Eegis scowled askance at the Canadian; and
Brother La Tour seemed uneasy when a sturdy
English trader (Henry Alexander by name), be-
gan to tell the company about his visit to Fort
Du Quesne, four months before.
He described, in the Huron tongue, his having
THE MISSION OF THE ASSUMPTIOxV. 123
stood upon the rampart of the fort, one lovely
summer morning, and seen the kegs of bullets
and gunpowder broken open by the half-crazy
followers of Captain Beaujeau — all helping them-
selves at will.
He told how he had gone With Athanase, the
Huron, to the dark ravines where the French and
Indians trapped Braddock and his troops on that
fatal ninth of June.
He had seen the splendid columns of the Brit-
ish regulars, in their scarlet uniforms, file along
the narrow path by the Monongahela, the music
playing gaily, and the sunlight sparkling on their
polished bayonets. There, followed the noble
band of Virginia rangers, headed by their young
leader, George Washington, with his aids, the
gallant Gage and Gates — all afterwards to be-
come famous in the Eevolutionary War.
He gave a thrilling account of the battle in the
gloomy ravine ; and his voice sank almost to a
whisper, as he described the shocking end of his
countryman, Braddock; while Washington, (he
said), rode through the dreadful carnage, calm and
unhurt, although he saw two horses killed under
him, and four bullets pierce his very clothing.
Timothy felt much attracted to this speaker.
Small wonder at it. Henry Alexander was really
a very superior man — college-bred, and wonder-
fully informed, as well, by extensive travel.
124
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
His tongue had a winsome sound ; and his looks
pleased the Yankee more than those of any he
saw about him.
He had some little talk with him in English,
before Father Peter (who had been going about
among the other traders and hunters, saying a
good word, here and there, to his spiritual chil-
dren), came to fetch Timothy back to the Mis-
sion house.
Here they found little Willy up, and dressed
— looking rather pale and weak, it is true, but
propped Avith pilloAvs in the easy-chair by the
fire, and quite ready for his dinner.
Father Armand had been kindly showing him
a big book, full of colored prints ; and it was
easy to see that the gentle old priest had com-
pletely won the boy’s heart.
At table, his seat was beside the Superior’s.
He listened as keenly as Timothy to the talk be-
tween the two priests — his perilous life among
strangers having made him unusually observant
for a child of his age.
Father Peter spoke of some indifferent matters
at the Mission store and at the Forge; of Eene
de Oouagne and Louis St. Ange, the rich factors
in Montreal ; and of messages that had just come
from the farm at Bois Blanc (or White Wood) as
to fowls and eggs.
The horses, Major and White Back, were do-
THE MISSION OF THE ASSUMPTION. 125
ing well, (he said), and So^lris^ the mare, was
lively as ever.
He had just begun to tell that Charles Parant,
the carpenter, had been bespoken to make a new
altar-rail in the church, two closets for the vest-
ments and linens in the vestry, and a couple of
chapels, in alcoves, each side the main altar,
when, after a soft rap at the door, a young In-
dian girl came hurriedly into the room.
She wore a skirt and sack of blue flannel : and
a large, brass crucifix hung about her neck.
Her face was so beautiful, and her slight form
so modestly graceful, that, at the first glance,
Willy Leslie thought one of the pictures on the
wall — that of the Loveliest of Women, in a blue
cloak — had stepped down from its frame to stand
before them.
‘‘ My Father ! ” she said, fixing on the Superior
her large, dark eyes, as soft and liquid as a forest
fawn’s; “there is sorrow in the lodge of Nigah
wei (my mother). Last night, Anne Why-washi-
hrooch^ my grandmother, was stricken for death.
All day long, she has called for Pere Pierre ”
“ And Pere Pierre shall go to her at once,” in-
terposed Father Armand, kindly: “Is your
canoe in waiting, Catharine Tarbuki ? ”
“ I came up in the boat of Meloche, the friend
of Pontiac,” said the girl, as Father Peter went
quickly from the room, to get what he wanted
126
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
from the church. “ Meloche was fishing off our
rocks this morning. He waits now in the bay,
my Father, to take us back to the village.”
Go, then, my child,” said the Superior.
“Every moment is precious. Father Peter will
meet you at the church with the Viaticum and
the holy oils. Make ready everything decently
for him at home ; and may our dear Lord grant
your grandmother the grace of a happy death
with its crown of everlasting glory ! ”
“ Amen, my Father,” whispered the Indian
girl, solemnly; and Timothy and Willy both
thought her face one of heavenly beauty, as
she dropped upon her knees at the Superior’s
feet, and, with arms crossed upon her breast,
bowed her dark, graceful head to receive his
benediction.
A moment more, and she had vanished, noise-
lessly as a lovely dream.
CHAPTEE X.
STEAISTGERS FROM THE FOREST.
PRUDEisrcE Skillet Avas trudging along the
river-road toAvard the forest, stopping every noAv
and then, to poke Avith a stout stick among the
bushes, or stooping, to look closer at the Avild
things that greAV in her path.
She was searching for the wild mustard plant,
or for a native root that resembled the horse-
radish.
She had a very good knowledge of herbs, and
was skilled in their use among the sick.
Once (a year before), she had nursed old Cap-
tain Wilson safely through a stroke of apoplexy ;
and now, having seen Mary Tarbuki’s aged
mother, Anne, drop down in the lodge, as if
struck by lightning, she remembered that hot
mustard foot-baths and neck-poultices had been
the first things to relieve the captain’s head.
Leaving Mary and Catharine to Avatch beside
the blind grandmother, Avho lay, breathing heav-
ily, upon a bed of skins on the lodge-floor, she
set Faith and Hope to kindling a fire, gypsy-
fashion, and sAvinging over it a big pot of river
water.
127
128
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
While this was coining to a boil, Prudence
took her stick, and went out to hunt for the
needed herbs.
She looked a queer figure in her old kersey
coat, and short yellow skirt ; but her rusty,
broken shoes had given place to a decent pair of
moccasins, made for her by Catharine’s skilful
fingers.
She wore a shabby straw hat that had once
been Faith’s, and under it, her mob-cap — her
thin, dry, dun-colored hair being drawn up on
top of her head in a little knot, which she called
her peeled onion.”
A cheery soul, was this valiant Yankee woman.
She had proved herself a very useful servant.
She was so clear-headed, as well as of such a
handy, thrifty turn, that she was much thought
of by her mistresses.
She had a great deal of what New Englanders
call faculty,” and, when not working for Mary
and Catharine, was often in demand in the tribe
to make shirts and caps for the young Wyan-
dots. She also knitted stockings for some of
the squaws who could afford to pay for it ; and
cut out aprons for them like the ga}^ calico one
she had worn when captured on Swan Island.
For these, and other little jobs, she received a
few shillings, which Mary allowed her to keep
for her own. She was glad to use them, at
STRAIN'GEKS FROM THE FOREST.
129
times, ill buying from the hunters, fruits, fish,
and small dead birds, to tempt the appetite of
poor young Hope who was delicate, and more
dainty in her tastes than Faith.
Prudence had pushed her way somewhat into
the thick of the forest, before she came upon
what she needed.
She sang, as she went, a shrill, high snatch of
an old Puritan hymn.
She was stooping, at last, over a bed of wild
mustard, filling her apron with its dried, pun-
gent leaves and pods, and looking the while, less
like a Christian woman gathering healing herbs
than a witch culling simples for an incantation,
when a sweet low voice, at her elbow, ques-
tioned her in French :
‘‘ Can you show us the way to the blockhouse
of the French traders ? ”
Hey ? ” grunted Prudence, who only under-
stood a few words of the language : “ can’t you
say it as well in English ? ”
‘‘Yes, mj^ good woman,” was the reply in
English, in the same sweet voice ; and turning.
Prudence looked upon a most unusual sight.
One of the loveliest ladies she had ever be-
held stood there before her in the dim forest ; and
at- her side, was another woman, evidently a serv-
ing-maid.
The lady was richly dressed in black velvet
130
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
and sables — a hood of mink-skin softly framing,
and admirably setting off her fair and brilliant
complexion.
Her eyes were large, and of a velvety black-
ness ; and a few stray ringlets of red-gold hair
curled upon her broad, white brow.
The pathetic smile upon her sweet mouth was
like moonlight on a rose. In spite, however, of
the elegance of her appearance, something in
the lady’s face, something in its coloring, and in
that certain sadness of expression, brought back
to Prudence a memory of her lost mistress — of
Lot Leslie’s comely wife.
It was a great joy to the poor Yankee woman
to hear her own tongue once more from so
lovely a mouth.
The third woman seemed to have no knowl-
edge of English, for she looked mutely and ques-
tioningly at her companions, as they talked,
watching closely the motion of their lips. She
was dark-skinned, and had a quiet, sensible face.
She wore a long cloak of russet cloth, (its hood
being drawn over her head), and carried a good-
sized travelling-bag.
“ Whence come ye both ? ” asked Prudence,
surprise and curiosity making her forget all else.
‘‘ From the camp of the Pottawattamies, across
the river,” replied the lady. My husband and
I had business with the tribe.” (She sighed
STKANGEKS FKOM THE FOREST.
131
heavily as she spoke.) ‘‘We stopped there for a
day. This morning, one of their Indians rowed
us over in his canoe. He was a lazy, tricksonie
fellow. Instead of landing us, as we had charged
him, at the village of the Wyandots, he debarked
us in these woods, under pretence that his boat
was leaking ; and then made his way back with-
out us, heedless of our pitiful outcries.”
“ ‘ When thou passeth through the waters, I
will be with thee, and through the rivers, they
shall not overflow thee,’” muttered Prudence in
her Scriptural fashion.
The lady stared at her, as at one whose wits
are astray ; but, seeing that the strange woman
listened to her, nevertheless, with, seemingly, the
keenest interest, she went on with her narrative.
“We have wandered all day in the forest, seek-
ing a way out. We were bound for the block-
house, hereabouts ; but the wood is so thick, we
quite despaired of reaching it. Some hours ago,
my husband left us sitting on the trunk of a
fallen tree. I was too exhausted to go further,
lie proposed to follow the river road to the open,
telling me he would soon return to fetch us out.
He has never returned! ... We grew
afraid, after awhile, of those lonely wilds, with
their chances of prowling beasts or savages. We
arose, and proceeded along the path whereby my
husband had disappeared. We had not walked
132
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
far, before we heard, thanks to God ! a woman’s
voice singing in the distance. It was a joyful
sound. We followed it quickly, and it led us on
to you, my good woman, culling simples, here, at
the edge of the forest.”
‘‘ ‘ Thus saith the Lord,’ ” quoted Prudence,
taking kindly in her own the gloved hand of the
lady : ‘‘ ‘ refrain thy voice from weeping, and
thine eyes from tears, for thy work shall be re-
warded, and they shall come again from the land
of the enemy ! ’ ”
“ Heaven grant it ! heaven speedily grant it ! ”
cried the stranger, fervently, as she clasped
her hands, and raised her tearful eyes to the blue
above them, in a burst of almost wild emotion :
Good woman, you know not all the hope, all
the blessed promise, your words would give me.
But my husband — ? Tliink you, he has safely
reached the blockhouse ? Show us but the way,
and my maid and I will go thither at once.”
‘‘ Come with me, mistress,” said the cheery
Yankee woman : ‘^the road you seek is close at
hand. Were it not that old Whitewash-Brush is
deadly sick at home, I’d go with you myself, every
step of the way.”
“ May our dear Lord reward your kindness ! ”
returned the sweet lady, gratefully, adding :
‘‘You live, then, good woman, among the W^yan-
dots?”
STRANGERS FROM THE FOREST.
133
is me that my banishment is pro-
longed ! ’ ’’ quoted Prudence from king David :
‘‘ I am, indeed, a prisoner and a slave among the
savages. ‘ Turn our captivity, O Lord, as a tor-
rent in the south ! ’ But, here is your road to
the blockhouse,” — she concluded, with one of
those sudden changes from the sublime to the
commonplace, which the lady found so extraor-
dinary, and almost laughable.
There was no sign of a smile on her face, how-
ever, as she turned back to clutch the Yankee
woman’s wrist, whispering eagerly and hoarsely :
“Are there any captive children among the
Wyandots ? — any pretty little white girls in your
village, good woman ? ”
“ What’s that to you ? ” questioned Prudence,
cautiously ; then, seeing the shadow of disap-
pointment that fell over the lovely face before
her, she melted enough to add :
“Well, I’ll not dispute but what there’s a
couple of mighty nice little white gals in the
lodge of Mary Tarbuki ! ”
The lady turned irresolutely, as if to follow
Prudence at once to her dwelling-place ; but the
other dark, quiet woman laid a detaining hand
on her arm, murmuring something in French, as
she pointed down the road to the blockhouse.
The lady yielded to her maid’s advice, what-
ever it might have been ; but, seemingl^^ with an
134
LOT Leslie’s folks.
effort. She cast a backward, pleading glance at
Prudence, who watched with interest the two
strangers hurry through the path toward the
lake, until they disappeared around a turn of the
road.
She’s got something on her mind, and no mis-
take, poor, pretty lady ! and that yellow-skinn’d
deminyzell knows her secret, and’s got the upper
hand of her ! ” muttered the Yankee woman to
herself, as she pushed her way home to Mary’s
lodge.
The curtain of skins was thrust aside at the
moment she reached it, and little Hope Leslie ran
out to welcome her.
She had news to tell her, as well.
The blind grandmother had taken such a dread-
ful turn towards noon, that Catharine had been
sent to fetch the priest from the Huron Mission.
Pierre Meloche happened to be fishing that
morning, off the river-bank : so he had offered to
take Catharine across in his boat. They were to
bring the priest back with them at once.
Miss Skillet’s heavy brows lowered at the
news. She had been bred a Puritan, and she
hated a Jesuit, (although she had never seen one),
as the devil is said to hate holy water. That
Evil One saw that the good woman had been
much moved and edified, of late, by the saintly
lives of Mary and Catharine; and he now set
STRANGERS FROM THE FOREST.
135
himself to stir up within her a great dislike and
dread of the coming priest.
Recalling all the ugly stories about Papists and
priestcraft, she had heard in her narrow child-
hood in the Massachusetts colony — long since
forgotten — she went slowly into the lodge.
She found that Faith had kept up a roaring
fire, over which the big water-pot was boiling
merrily. She hastened to steep the herbs she
had gathered: and was soon busy binding the
hot poultices to the nape of the sick woman’s
neck, to her wrists, and the soles of her icy feet.
Before long, the fiery plasters began to draw
the congested blood from the sufferer’s brain,
bringing back to her consciousness and imperfect
speech.
Instructing her daughter to keep her well-
covered with the warmest of buffalo skins, and
to renew the poultices until blisters formed
under them. Prudence slipped away to find
F aith and Hope.
It was close to the hour when Catharine
might be expected to return with the priest
from the Mission ; and Miss Skillet’s whole heart
was set upon getting her two darlings out of the
way of his supposed Satanic influence.
The children were busy at the fire, boiling
hominy and bear’s meat in a kettle, for the noon-
day meal.
136
LOT Leslie’s folks.
Prudence quietly took their place. Bidding
them eat quickly a hearty dinner, she sent them
both off to the edge of the wood, to gather the
dry branches and pine-cones for firing.
She had time to whisper to them before they
went :
“ If you chance to meet Catharine and the priest
on the road, have nothing to say to him / Dread-
ful things have happened to them that had deal-
ings with Popish priests. Oh ! my dearies, I’d
rather follow you to your graves, and never see
you more in this world, than have you fall under
the power of a Jesuit ; for a Jesuit will ruin you,
body and soul ! ” ^
Frightened by the strange look of dread and
mystery that settled, with these words, on the
face of their old friend and care-taker, the little
girls hurried away towards the forest, and were
out of sight of the lodge by the time Catharine
and Father Peter entered at its door.
Prudence stared at the priest with keen interest
and curiosity, in spite of her repugnance to his
cloth.
This is our slave, monjpere^ — Wahisca Amisk^^^
said Catharine, waving her hand toward the
white woman, and calling her by her Indian title,
^ The actual words of a New England captive among the Indians
to her son, when he told her that a Jesuit priest had offered to buy
him from the savages.
STBANGERS FROM THE FOREST. 137
“White Beaver,” — a name, well-earned by the
Yankee servant’s untiring industry.
Prudence, compelled by the dignity of the
Jesuit’s tall, slender figure, and the high-bred
intelligence of his grave, gentle face — (or was it
by something higher and holier?) dropped him a
curtsey, as it were, against her will.
The priest took no notice of the salute, or of
her who gave it. His eyelids were downcast :
bis lips moving rapidly in whispered prayer.
Catharine had forgotten, for the moment, that
he bore with him, hidden in his bosom, the Holy
of Holies, the Eucharistic God, before Whom all
the earth should keep silence.
Her mother was approaching them Avith the
blessed candle. Confused and sorrowful for her
forgetfulness, (prompted even though it had
been, by her zeal to bring an erring soul to the
notice of the true Shepherd of the flock), the
Indian girl took the freshly-lighted taper from
Mary’s hand, and meekly led Father Peter to the
side of her dying grandmother.
The keen spiritual sense of the old squaw had
already recognized the presence of her hidden
Lord.
Supported against her daughter’s breast, the
blind woman stretched forth her arms toward
the approaching priest, Avith an indescribable
look of love and longing on her dark, Avrinkled
138
LOT Leslie’s folks.
face — a look, so full of heaven, that it brought
Prudence Skillet to her knees in her distant,
shady corner of the lodge, as if an angel of
God had smitten her down with his sword of
lire.
Those eyeless sockets, uplifted, seemed to gaze
upon some Object (unseen to all, save them) —
some Person or Thing so beautiful, so brilliant,
that the mystic radiance of its beauty overflowed
upon the old squaw’s dusky, homely face, and
transfigured it with light and loveliness.
Well might poor old Anne Why-washi-hrooch
thus wear the likeness of a seraph, adoring God
in His unveiled glory !
Hers was a soul of singular holiness and purity.
The clean of heart are ever blessed in seeing God ;
and she had served Him fifty years from her
conversion, without soiling by serious sin the
white robe of her baptism.
Her very blindness was a proof of her martyr-
like fidelity to her faith ; for her fierce Mohawk
mother, a ver}^ Jezubel of aborigines, learning in
the early days of the Missions, that her young
daughter listened more readily to the teachings
of the Black Kobe than to the threats of the
medicine-man of the tribe, plucked out her e3^es
with her own strong and cruel claws, and flung
them to the dogs of the lodge.
Now, find your way, if you can, to the Black
STRAT^GEKS FROM THE FOREST.
139
Kobe, and the camp of his Manitou ! ” shrieked
the unnatural fury to her victim.
But, exceedingly great and sweet was the re-
ward of the young confessor.
Into the dreadful darkness that fell, that hour,
upon her bodily sight, there ,qame a wonderful
Light, that never afterwards wavered or van-
ished.
She needed not, henceforth, the brightness of
sun, or moon, or star. She missed not the light
of torch or camp-fire ; for the glory of the living
God enlightened her soul : and night could be no
more for her, who walked ever in the unearthly
splendors of the Lamb.
It was said of her in the tribe : ‘‘ Why-washi-
hrooch sees, day and night, the God of the Black
Robe ! ” — and her very mother grew afraid, in
time, of that strange, steady radiance that seemed
to shine constantly from out her daughter’s meek,
sightless face.
She was glad when the Christian chief of the
Wyandots asked her for his bride. She rejoiced
when he carried her off to his lodge on the banks
of the Detroit.
Ho’Oris-ens^ as the chief was called, had been
directed in a dream to the Blind Lily of the
Mohawks,” — a shining figure, all in white, ap-
pearing to him in sleep, and telling him that if
he could but win the gentle Anne for his wife.
140
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
joy, peace, and plenty would dwell forever more
in his lonely lodge.
She had proved to him, indeed, a sweet and
faithful spouse — lilling his life with countless
blessings, and bearing him many children of
whom Mary, (or Omi-Mee) was the last survivor.
And now, she was making ready to join him
in that Better Land, to which llo-a-is-ens had
journeyed alone, full of the peace of God, ten
years before.
At a sign from Father Peter, Mary Tarbuki
arose from her knees, her lovely face wet with
tears, and quietly motioned Catharine and Pru-
dence to follow her out from the lodge.
The priest was left alone with the dying
woman ; but they had not long to wait before
the Jesuit summoned them to return.
The old squaw’s peace with God had been
made at her girlhood’s baptism, half a century
gone — nevermore to be broken upon earth.
Prudence Skillet had not intended to go back
to the lodge while the priest remained in it ; but
such a burning desire possessed her, unaccount-
ably, to look again upon that wonderful light
and beauty shining from the sick woman’s face,
that she felt forced to return to her with Mary
and Catharine.
She felt incensed at herself for her weakness,
as she knelt down in that dim corner, where the
STRANGERS FROM THE FOREST.
141
blind woman had been wont to sit constantly in
her days of health. ‘‘ This,” she thought in her
heart, this must be part of the spell of their
Popish priestcraft. It’s rank sorcery. I’m main
glad I sent the children away to the forest ! ”
A low murmur in an unknown tongue drew
her attention towards the rough couch of the
dying woman.
Beside it, knelt Father Peter holding up before
Anne’s sightless eyes, a small white Wafer, the
sight of which made the flesh of Prudence Skil-
let creep with an overwhelming sense of awe
and mystery. All the more, because she saw
that Mary and Catharine adored It, prostrate on
the ground, ivith their faces pressed to the
earthen floor.
Two texts from her favorite Scriptures came
into her mind as she watched them — one from
the Lamentations of Jeremias : “ He shall put his
mouth in the dust, if so there may be hope ” ;
the other, from Daniel when that prophet saw, in
vision, the Angel of God, and heard from his lips
the revelation of the Lord : I heard the voice
of his words, and when I heard, I lay in con-
sternation upon my face, and my face was close
to the ground.”
But oh! the shining rapture on the brow of
the aged squaw, when the priest laid the little
snowy Wafer upon her trembling tongue !
142
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
As if dazzled by a heavenly light, the white
slave in the corner held her hands before her
eyes, from which a flood of tears was pouring,
and sobbed softly to herself with a sort of
strange, wondering envy.
What was that little white Object, that called
forth from these poor Indians such an excess of
profound worship, such an ecstasy of glad adora-
tion ?
The Yankee woman found it impossible to an-
swer this question.
When she took courage again to look at the
sick woman, the last anointing had begun. Pru-
dence watched the priest, praying, touch with
holy oil, the eyes and ears, mouth and nostrils,
hands and feet of the old squaw ; but she was
wholly unprepared for the startling circumstance
that followed.
Father Peter had not yet put back the oil-
stocks into their case, and Mary Tarbuki was
just about to re-cover with the fur robes the
naked feet of Why-washi-hrooch^ when the dying
woman sprang up from her couch, and stood
erect before them all.
With face and arms upraised to heaven, in a
gesture of unconscious tragedy, she cried aloud
in the Indian tongue :
‘‘ I am cured ! I am cured ! The Lord my
God hath delivered me, in His mercy, from the
STRANGERS FROM THE FOREST.
143
shadow of death, and the chill darkness of the
grave ! ”
‘‘ Give thanks to the Almighty Physician, my
dear children ! ” said the trembling voice of the
priest, as he fell upon his knees, with the three
Indian women : ‘‘ Give thanlp, with all your
hearts, for the wonder God hath wrought. It is
written : ‘ The prayer of faith shall save the sick
man, and the Lord shall raise him up.’ ”
Whilst he began to recite the Te Deum^ softly,
yet with deepest feeling. Prudence Skillet, half-
sutfocated by the strange choking at her throat,
rushed for the door of the lodge.
She felt she must reach the open air, or
smother on the spot.
Her brain was dazed, stunned, by all she had
seen and heard. What awful Power was this
that could raise even the dying to life and
health ?
As she thrust aside the curtain at the door, she
ran against Faith and Hope Leslie, returning to
the lodge with their bundles of firewood.
Behind them, pressed forward two other female
figures.
Prudence knew them, at a glance, as the
strange women she had met that morning in the
forest.
The beautiful lady was deadly pale in her
black velvet and sables. She caught wildly at
144
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
Prudence, exclaiming in something between a
sob and a scream :
‘‘ My husband has not returned ! He must be
lost in the forest ! What shall I do, good woman,
what shall I do? Where shall I turn for
help?”
The face of the Yankee woman blazed with a fire
that was almost that of insanity. She was indeed
full of that madness which comes to people of
narrow experience when they look, for the first
time, upon the startling wonders of divine power
and mercy.
She seized the strange lady by the shoulders,
and pushed her vehemently towards the door of
the lodge, crying out with passionate energy :
‘‘ In, with you, my lady ! in, with you, and
look upon the dead who have come, this day, to
life ! ‘ The bitterness of death is passed.’ ‘ Why
art thou sorrowful, O my soul ? And why dost
thou disquiet me ? ’ Where should you turn for
help but to the Man in there, the Black Eobe,
who worketh miracles — who healeth the sick
with a touch ? ”
CHAPTER XI.
THE FACE AT THE WINDOW.
Timothy Grindstone had found the Mission-
store of the Jesuits a very entertaining place.
Leaving little Willy quite happy and at home
with Father Armand, in the big easy-chair beside
the fire, the brave Swan Islander made his way,
alone, after dinner, to the workshop of Brother
La Tour, and offered to help Brother Regis at
the counters.
It was an ide hour, when there was little to be
done. Few of the traders or hunters had yet
come in from their noonday meal ; and when
Timothy had finished the little chores Brother
Regis had laid out for him, he found himself
resting on a bale of blankets beside the English-
man, Alexander, whose fascinating talk had so
pleased and interested him, that morning.
“ It does me good,” said he in a low voice :
‘Ho meet one of my own kind, and hear the
music of an English voice. I’m sick of the jab-
bering of these rascally redskins ; and the French
lingo of the others drives me wild ! ”
“ Have a care,” whispered Alexander : “ these
145
146
LOT Leslie’s eolks.
are dangerous words. I, myself, am only here on
sufferance. If it weren’t for the priests, these
Indians would soon make short work of us both.
Yet, with all its risks and hardships, I like the
wild life of the forest. It must be the blood of
my Indian forefathers stirring in my veins.”
‘‘Your ‘ Indian forefathers ’? ” echoed Grind-
stone, in dismay. “ Aren’t you, then, an English-
man of Englishmen, born and bred ? ”
“ For many generations — yes,” returned his
companion, striking his pocket-flint for a light
for his pipe : “ but, more than two hundred years
ago, a young Florida squaw, Wacissa, was wed-
ded to my ancestor, Juan Ortiz. Worse and
worse, you think of it, eh ? ” (he added with a
pleasant laugh) : “ Spanish on one side, Seminole
on the other — a queer mixture it is, and a strange
story, my man. Would you care to hear it ? ”
“ That, would I,” returned Timothy, heartily :
“ and many thanks to you, comrade, for the tell-
ing. We can be quite free in our talk, I take it,
seeing that no one about here understands Eng-
lish but our two selves.”
“ Don’t be too sure of that,” cautioned Alex-
ander, with a wary glance around him. “ But
it’s not much for others to know, even if they
chance to overhear me, that, in the year of our
Lord, 1528, Pamphilo de Narvaez of the isle of
Cuba was made Governor of Florida, or (as his
THE FACE AT THE WINDOW.
147
commission stated it), ‘ of all the lands lying from
the River of Palms to the Cape of Florida.’ He
sailed for his new domain, that year, with four
hundred foot soldiers and twenty horse, in five
stout ships.
This de Narvaez had previously made some
name for himself by having engaged the famous
Cortez, at the order of the Governor of Cuba.
But the destroyer of Mexico overthrew him, and
took him prisoner. Whereupon, the hot-headed
and arrogant fellow cried out to Cortez : ‘ Esteem
it good fortune that you have taken me captive ! ’
To which, the victor replied: ‘Nay, then, it is
the least of the things I have done in Mexico ! ’
“Well, it was in the month of April that de
Narvaez landed in Florida, somewhere about
Apalachee bay. He marched with his men into
the country, seizing on the natives, as they went,
and forcing them to act as guides. They had
their heads full of dreams of splendid cities, and
of towns full of gems, or of gold and silver treas-
ure. They were terribly disappointed when they
reached the first village (of Apalachee) to find it
a miserable little settlement of some forty In-
dian wigwams. The natives, by degrees, got to
understand that this insolent Spaniard and his
people were merely treasure-hunting upon their
grounds, for gold and emeralds ; so they guyed
them about from one village to another, always
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LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
promising that rich ‘ finds ’ awaited them at their
next remove.
‘‘De Narvaez and his men were thus led a
pretty dance over some eight hundred miles of
country, losing soldiers and provisions at every
turn. Coming out, at last, upon the coast, they
found themselves in such wretched plight, that
they set about making some cockle shells of
boats, in which none but the most desperate of
creatures would venture to embark. In these,
they coasted toward New Spain. But, alas !
when they neared the mouth of the Mississippi,
they were cast away in a storm, and all perished
save fifteen, only four of whom lived to reach
Mexico, and that, after eight years of wandering
and hardships, almost past believing.
“ The wife of de Narvaez hearing, the next
year, in Cuba, the unhappy end of her husband’s
expedition, fitted out a small company of some
score and a half of men, and sent them forth in
a brigantine to search for the Governor and his
soldiers. With this company, went Juan Ortiz,
my ancestor, a native of Seville, and a gentleman
liighly connected with the Castilian nobility.
Reaching, in due time, the coast of Florida,
the newcomers, in their inexperience, eagerly
sought to communicate with the natives. The
natives, on their part, seemed just as eager to
give them a chance. For, as the Spaniards drew
THE FACE AT THE WINDOW.
140
near to the shore, in their boat, three or four In-
dians ran down upon the beach, and setting up a
stick on the sands, placed in a cleft at its top,
what looked to be a letter. Then, they withdrew
a few paces, and made signs for the Spaniards to
come and take it.
‘‘ ‘ It is a snare to capture us ! ’ cried the cap-
tain of the brigantine ; and all aboard agreed
with him in his suspicions, save Juan Ortiz, and
his body-servant, Manuel Gomez.
“ ‘It is a letter from his Excellency, Governor
de Narvaez,’ urged the gentleman from Seville.
‘ It may tell us all we want to know about him
and his lost company. Gomez and I will go and
fetch it. Come, Manuel, let us wade at once to
the shore ! ’ And, in spite of the loud protests
of the ship’s company, Ortiz and his servant
pushed through the clear, green shallows to the
spot on the sand, where the supposed letter was
fluttering in the wind.
“No sooner had they touched the beach, than
the Indians swarmed out, like magic, from every
side, till a multitude surrounded the two Span-
iards, and laid hold of them. Gomez foolishly
showed fight, and was instantly killed by a tom-
ahawk in the hands of a chief. The rest of the
natives carried off Ortiz to the nearest Indian
village — his friends in the brigantine being so
frightened by what they saw upon the shore, that
150
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
they put out to sea again, making no effort to
rescue him.
‘‘ In the Indian village, Ortiz noticed that the
houses were all made of wood, and thatched with
palm leaves. The two largest were the house
of the chief (or cazique) of the tribe, which stood
on a terrace, and resembled a fort ; and a temple
for sacrifices over the door of which was set up a
curious object. This was the figure of a great
bird, carved with some skill out of wood, and
having gilded eyes! Ortiz wondered a good
deal, as he looked at it, who could have been the
painter that understood the art of gilding in that
wild and savage quarter.
“ But he was not left long to ponder the mys-
tery. The Indians hurried him before their
chief, whose name was ITcita ; and who at once
condemned Juan to die by fire. This was to be
done as follows :
“Four savages set as many high stakes in the
ground, to which they bound the captive. They
fastened his arms and legs, extended, as if on a
St. Andrew’s cross ; and, down below him, they
lighted a fire, so as to make his death a slow and
dreadful torture.
“ The flames began to rage and roar, (fed by
many cruel, eager hands), and poor Ortiz feeling
their scorching breath upon his feet, believed
himself already doomed. As he was a good
THE FACE AT THE WIJSDOW.
151
Papist, he prayed fervently to God and the
Madonna for aid. When lo! a very strange
circumstance happened.^
“ Out from the house of the chief, near by,
there ran to Ucita, a young ^hd graceful Indian
girl. It was his only daughter, Wacissa. We
had a picture of her — an heirloom — at our old
English homestead across the seas. Juan Ortiz
painted her, years later, just as she appeared,
that day. Her skin was more of a golden tint
than brown, with a rich carmine on cheek and
lips. Her face was passing lovely, and she wore
a robe of pure, white cotton that fell in straight
folds to her feet. On her long, black, silky hair
was a wreath of fresh, green palm-leaves ; and
about her rounded throat, a necklace of sparkling
beads, while her beautiful arms were ringed with
great bands of polished silver. Ortiz always
declared when he painted the picture (for he was
very skilful in colors) that, in his awful extremity
that day, Wacissa looked to him like a young
goddess out of a Greek poem.
‘^He could not understand her language, but
he guessed well her meaning when, standing
before Ucita, she bowed to him profoundly, and
spread wide her lovely, pleading arms. Long
afterward, he knew that she said to him in her
rich, musical voice : ^ My kind father, why kill
J These are actual facts, attested by a credible authority.
152
LOT leslip:'s folks.
this poor stranger ? He is but one, and alone —
how, then, can he do you or our people any
harm ? It is better that you should keep him a
prisoner. Alive, and grateful, he may, some day,
prove himself of great service to you. Spare
him, then, if only for my sake, great and good
Ucita ! ’
‘‘ The cazique sat silent for a while, watching
the furious flames leap higher and higher, lick-
ing, as with tongues of Are, the soles of the
victim’s feet. His wrists and ankles had begun
to bleed from the deep gashes made by his cruel
bonds. His face was livid with agony.
“ ‘ Kelease the captive ! ’ cried Ucita, at last,
rising, and going away to his house. The
Indians instantly cut down the Spaniard, and
laid him fainting at Wacissa’s feet. AVhen they
had brought her water and oil, she gently washed
and dressed the captive’s wounds; and, when he
revived, ordered food and drink to be given to
him. He smiled up into her beautiful face,
which seemed to him, then, the face of a min-
istering angel : and made a feeble effort to kiss
her tender hands. She blushed, but did not
show any signs of displeasure.
‘‘ In a few days, Ortiz was well enough to be
allotted his special work in the tribe. Strange
and dreadful work it was, and very revolting to
a high-born Spaniard of delicate tastes. Death
THE FACE AT THE AYINDOW.
153
would almost have been easier. He was sta-
tioned as sentinel at the door of the village-
temple, and set to guard it against ail intruders,
especially wild beasts. Being a place of sacrifice,
it was the nightly resort of tvolves, seeking for
carrion. The rude altar in the centre of the
great gloomy hall was dyed red with human
blood ; the floor was thickly strewn with a
ghastly array of skulls and bloody bones, in
various loathsome stages of decay.
“ The sight of these, and their awful stench
filled poor Ortiz with a shuddering sickness. He
could not help fancying that the remains of the
unfortunate de Narvaez and his men might be
among the horrors that reeked under the gilded
eyes of the great carved bird. The place seemed
peopled, nightly, with the ghosts of the missing
Spaniards ; and a fearful midnight adventure,
which happened, at this time, almost upset his
reason.”
Here, the Englishman stopped to relight his
pipe, which had gone out ; and the storehouse
cat. Brother Fine-Ear by name, came, and rubbed
his sides against Timothy’s foot.
It was an enormous creature, smooth, round,
and glossy as a black, satin cushion.
From the top of his broad head to the tip of
his sinuous tail, not a spot of color was to be seen
about him, except his great green eyes, which
154 LOT LESLIE'S FOLKS.
now fixed themselves steadily on Grindstone's
face.
He patted his knee encouragingly, and Brother
Fine-Ear sprang up upon it, and curled himself
down under the stroke of the friendly hand,
purring loudly, as he tucked in his velvet paws,
and settled to a blinking nap.
Late, one night,” said Alexander, going on
with his story : ‘‘Juan Ortiz awoke to find the
temple a den of howling wolves. At sunset, that
day, the dead body of a young Indian had been
brought in, and laid upon the altar of sacrifice.
It was the son of a great chief, and many charges
had been given the sentinel to guard it well.
But the wolves had scented out their prey.
“Waking in a sore fright, Juan seized a heavy
cudgel, (which he always kept by him when he
slept), and laid about him in the dense darkness
of the temple, driving out the filthy beasts. He
knew not that the foremost, as it ran, dragged
with it the corpse of the young Indian ; but,
having pursued the pack for some distance, he
chanced to smite one of the wolves, at random,
a mortal blow. It was not until his return to
the temple, at daybreak, that he discovered, to
his deep distress, the loss of the young Indian’s
body.
“ The affair made a great stir in the village ;
and Ucita, full of rage, resolved to put the
THE FACE AT THE WHSTHOW.
155
unlucky Spaniard to death. First, however, he
sent out several Indians to recover, if possible,
the lost sacrifice from the wolves. He had not
credited the sentinel’s version of his midnight
encounter ; but, astonishing to relate, the young
man’s corpse was found by the scouts, and near
it, the body of the huge wolf that Ortiz had un-
consciously slain in the darkness.
This saved the life of the Spaniard : and for
several more years, he watched at the door of the
temple of sacrifice, keeping guard over the unholy
dead, under the outspread wings of the great,
golden-eyed bird. At last, Ucita decided to sac-
rifice the sentinel, in order to win the favor of
his gods upon a war he had begun to wage with
a neighboring cazique^ Mocoso.
‘‘But, again, Wacissa came to the Spaniard’s
rescue. At dead of night, she led him secretly
out of her father’s village, and brought him safely
to the camp of Mocoso. That chief seems to
have been a broad-minded man, according to his
natural lights, and of great kindness of heart.
He welcomed the daughter of his rival; and
Ortiz, finding to his surprise and delight, that a
priest, Dom Angelo, the former chaplain of the
de ISTarvaez fleet, was also a captive of Mocoso’s,
engaged him at once to marry him to Wacissa.”
A little interruption here took place in the
trader’s story — Brother Regis calling on Timothy
156
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
to light the lamps around the walls of the store-
house, where the twilight shadows had already
begun to darken.
When he had resumed his seat beside the Eng-
lishman, with Brother Fire-Ear again on his
knee, Alexander continued :
‘^For many years, Juan Ortiz and his Indian
wife led a peaceful, happy life in their southern
home. Mocoso grew so fond of the Spaniard,
who was a good and wise man, that he chose
him for his favorite counsellor, and treated him
and Wacissa, as well as the priest, more like
honored guests than prisoners and slaves.
Ortiz, as our family legends tell us, ‘ spent
his time wandering with his gentle, beautiful
wife over the delightful savannahs of Florida,
through the mazes of the palmetto, or beneath the
refreshing shades of the fragrant magnolia — pur-
suing the deer in the grey of the early morning,
and the scaly fry in the silver lakes, at the cool
of the evening.’ Theirs, was the ideal life of
Adam and Eve in an earthly Paradise.”
‘‘ Among their many children (who, with their
sweet mother, Avere all made Christians by the
good Dom Angelo), one daughter, Ysabella, was
destined for a different fate to that of her brothers
and sisters. A young English sailor was ship-
Avrecked on the Florida coast, and, after clinging
to a broken mast for a night and a day, was
THE FACE AT THE WINDOW.
157
rescued by Ysabella in her little canoe. The life
that she saved was devoted, from that hour, to its
beautiful deliverer. Henry Alexander, (for the
young man was my great-grandfather), wooed and
won this gentle daughter of Juan and Wacissa
Ortiz ; and, later on, carried her back to England,
where he fell heir to a considerable estate.
“ One of his grandsons eventually emigrated
to Canada, and from that branch of our family,
came the Belleperches whose descendants are
now settled here, on the bank of the Detroit. It
was the son of my cousin Belleperche, who gave
us this morning, in this very storehouse, the
pleasing rhyme on the origin of the races. He is
a clever youth, and a fine declaimer. I have been
staying with his father for some days, but to-
night, I start once more upon the road. What I
said to you. Grindstone, at our first talk, I re-
peat to you, this evening: Will you come with
me to Lake George ? Will you try your luck on
a trading-trip to Fort William Henry ?”
At this juncture, the great cat on Timothy’s
knee began to spit, and rose up, ruffling its inky
fur, and arching its glossy back.
Its big green eyes glared at one of the store
windows, blazing, like a pair of fiery emeralds.
Timothy followed its gaze : and what he saw
there made his heart stand still, and the blood
freeze in his veins.
158
LOT Leslie’s folks.
A huge Indian stood outside the window, peer-
ing into the store. He held his blanket arched
over his head, so that he might the better see
into the lighted room ; but Timothy distinctly
saw his face. A near-by lamp shone full upon it.
He recognized the man as a Caughnewaga
chief, one of the craftiest and most cruel of his
old masters.
They had, then, tracked him to his present
refuge !
The cold sweat started out over him, at the
thought of being retaken, and dragged back into
captivity.
He lifted the great cat, and held it before his
face, to hide it, if possible, from the Indian ; but
he could not hide it from Alexander, who was
seated with his back to the fatal window.
“What ails you, man?” growled the English-
man, alarmed at his companion’s deadly white-
ness. “ Have you seen a ghost ? ”
“ I have seen an enemy ! ” muttered Timothy,
shrinking into the shadow of some boxes, and
setting Fine-Ear on his feet. “Say no more,”
he added, gripping Alexander’s hand as in a
vise : “ I am your man. I’ll go with you to-
night ; but you must help me disguise myself for
the journey. There are cruel spies upon my
track.”
“ Leave all that to me,” returned Alexander,
THE FACE AT THE WINDOW.
159
encouragingly ; then, as a middle-aged Canadian
entered the store, followed by a party of Indians :
“Here is my cousin, Belleperche, with some of
his friendly Hurons. They’ll see you safe to the
Mission house. Make ready, there, for the road ;
and I’ll call for you in an hour or two.”
Timothy went back, through the moonlight, to
Father Armand in such a state of anxious per-
plexity, that he scarcely noticed his kindly body-
guard, or thought of looking about for the big
Caughnewaga. He would have been easier in
his mind if he had known that the huge fellow
lay, that moment, on the ground, under the store-
house window, with Eed Snake’s knife glittering
in his lifeless breast.
Having pledged his word to the Englishman,
Timothy was now sorely distressed at the pros-
pect of parting from little Willy. The presence
of the Caughnewaga was a menace to the boy, as
well as to himself. Why couldn’t he take Willy
with him to Lake George ?
But the Father Superior soon dashed that
feeble hope. Willy, (he said), was not so well as
he had been, that morning. He had grown
feverish during the afternoon. The child was
far ‘too weak for a long, rough journey. Father
Armand had already sent him to bed.
Was he asleep? The priest thought not.
Timothy, then, making his way into the mooii-
160
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
lighted infirmary, had a long talk with the lad,
sitting on the side of his little cot.
By the time Alexander arrived, that night, at
the Mission house, Timothy had had his supper,
and had arranged that Willy should remain with
Father Armand during his friend’s absence. It
w'as also agreed, that the boy should see no
strangers, but spend his time constantly under
the Superior’s eye, studying, and improving him-
self.
The little fellow, seeing that Grindstone seemed
uneasy, promised him in a whisper that he would
let no one make a Papist of him while he was
gone.
When all these little matters were finally set-
tled, Timothy asked for Father Peter. He wanted
to say farewell to him, and thank him for his
kind attentions.
He was surprised to learn from the Superior,
that his brother-priest had not returned — would
not return that night, from the Wyandot village.
One of their Montreal factors, Louis St. Ange,
with his wife and her maid, had been lost during
the day in the forest by the river, (said Father
Armand). The ladies had made their way with
much difficulty to the blockhouse ; but Catharine
Tarbuki had brought word, at sunset, that Father
Peter and a party of Indians were still scouring
the w^oods for the lost merchant.
THE FACE AT THE WINDOW.
161
’MHieii questioned further, Catharine had said
that the St. Anges had been traveling among
the tribes, for months, searching for a stolen child.
Father Peter hoped to bring them to the Assump-
tion Mission, the following day.
‘‘You won’t forget your promise, sir — to keep
Willy away from the eyes of all strangers ? ” said
Timothy, as he grasped tightly the Superior’s
hand.
And, while the good priest renewed his assur-
ances that he would guard faithfully his precious
trust, Alexander opened his pack, and took from
it a wig and beard of long white hair and a bun-
dle of picturesque clothing.
The first, Timothy fitted over his ugly scalp-
lock; the second, he fastened securely around his
jaws ; and when he had changed his Indian dress
for one of the Englishman’s Canadian disguises,
he stood forth ready for his journey, the imper-
sonation of a hardy, respectable old French
trader.
“ If the redskins scalp me now,” said he, with
a grim smile, as he parted from Father Armand,
“ they’ll not have much trouble ripping off my
hair ! ”
“ And no danger of a sore head after the oper-
ation, either ! ” added Alexander, with a laugh.
Could he have foreseen the future, — could he
have torn away the veil from the dark and
162
LOT Leslie’s folks.
bloody doom then shambling hideously toward
him, — that laugh would have changed into a
shriek of horror, strong enough to have shaken
the very stars of heaven.
CHAPTER XII.
A FATAL GAME OF BALL.
The English trader’s first plan had been to
travel down to Pennsylvania, and visit Fort
Gripsholm on the Schuylkill River, near the site
of what is now known as Gray’s Ferry.
It was a Swedish station — then, surrounded by
a great forest ; and near by, was the Strong-house,
built by the Swedes for a trafficking place Avith
the Delawares, and other Indian tribes, who
thither brought their furs for exchange.
But the news of the British victory at Lake
George had changed Alexander’s plans. He,
consequently, made his way with his companion
through the Great Lakes, and across the northern
part of New York.
Here, he struck the Avaters Avhich mingle Avith
those of Lake Champlain, and Avhich Avere first
christened by the sainted martyr. Father Isaac
Jogues — the Lake of the Holy Sacrament, be-
cause he came upon them on the eve of Corpus
Christi. The name of the English king after-
Avards blotted out the lake’s early and sacred
title ; and when Timothy Grindstone first looked
163
164
LOT Leslie’s folks.
upon it, trailing its thirty miles of clear, tranquil
water between long ranges of lofty mountains,
it was known only as Lake George.
At its southern point, stood Fort William
Henry. On their way thither, Alexander and
Timothy stopped at one of its outposts, where
General Johnson had encamped some of his men.
These were so elated by the victory of the pre-
vious June, that they had grown careless and
self-confident, somewhat relaxing their vigilance
against the neighboring French and Indians.
Alexander was surprised to learn from the
commanding officer, Captain Gorell, that, the day
following the trader’s arrival at the post, the In-
dians were to entertain the garrison with a game
of Baggatiway,
What is ^ Baggatiway ’ f ” asked Timothy of
his friend, the next day, when they were alone in
an upper room of the fort.
“ Have you never seen' it played ? ” said Alex-
ander. “ It’s an Indian game of ball, and a very
exciting one, I can assure you. Aren’t you com-
ing down to watch it ? ”
Hot I,” replied Timothy, as he arranged upon
a small table some sheets of paper, an ink-horn,
and a quill pen one of the officers had given him.
‘‘ I’m going to write a letter to Willy. A canoe
will leave here at noon ; and I’m glad of a chance
to send a few lines. The lad’s a poor scholar, to
A FATAL GAME OF BALL.
165
be sure: but Father Armand will kindly read
him the letter from his absent Tim.”
‘‘ That old priest seems to be a goodish sort of
a man,” said the Englishman, thoughtfully, “ I
think you said he gave you a safe-conduct
letter ? ”
“Yes, I have it snugly here,” and Grindstone
tapped his breast-pocket.
“Hold fast to it,” said Alexander, decidedly.
“ It may prove of great service, if we get into a
tight place at any time, with these French or red-
skins. Now, I’ll run down to the mess-room,”
he added, “ and find out when Baggatiway is go-
ing to begin.”
Timothy had only written a page or two — for
he was but a clumsy penman, writing with great
labor, squaring his elbow as he did so, his face
close to the paper, and constantly putting out his
tongue — when the Englishman returned.
He was looking very red in the face, and kept
mopping the sweat from his brow with a big
yellow handkerchief.
A large, fiorid man, was Henry Alexander,
who always felt the heat very much.
“ A deuced hot morning. Grindstone ! ” he cried.
“By Jove! I’m going to take a dip in the lake.
Game won’t begin for a while yet. I’ll have
time enough for my bath before the posts are
set.”
166
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
‘‘ Success to you ! ” said Timothy, good-na-
turedly, as he rubbed his quill across his sleeve
by way of a pen- wiper.
‘‘Best leave these here with you,” pursued
Alexander, taking out his purse, and drawing
from his fob a big, old-fashioned silver watch.
He laid both on the table beside his friend —
then, moved toward the door.
Some other and more serious thought seemed
suddenly to strike him. He turned with a grave
look on his broad, rosy face :
“ These are queer, troublous times. Grind-
stone,” said he, drawing a step nearer to his
friend. “When a man goes out of his door,
he knows not if he will ever come back.”
He passed his hand perplexedly across his
brow, which was covered with beads of perspira-
tion.
“ I don’t know what has come over me,” he
added, slowly ; “ but, remember this : If any-
thing sudden happens to me, comrade, the watch
and purse are yours.”
Walking, with a curious hesitancy, ‘to the door,
he wheeled about again on the threshold to say :
“You’ll find in yonder pack the safe-conduct
letters my cousin Belleperche gave me at parting.
There’s a bit of wampum, there, too — studded
with bear’s teeth. I got it from the chief Pontiac.
Both might be useful in an emergency.”
A FATAL GAME OF BALL.
167
And he was gone.
“ Heaven save us ! ” muttered Timothy, as the
door closed after him. ‘‘The heat’s been too
much for him. He needs blood-letting or leeches.
’Tain’t like him to be so low iri‘ spirits.”
He picked up his quill, and returned to his
hard task of telling Willy on paper (it would
have been so easy, face to face !) all the news of
his journey across the lakes, and the success of
his trading-trip with the Englishman.
But, try as he would, he could not fix his
thoughts upon his letter. His friend’s unusual
mood, his parting words of counsel, had made
him so uneasy, that, at last, he pushed aside his
pen and ink, and crossed over to a window which
gave upon the ground in front of the fort. To
his surprise, he saw that the game of Baggatiway
was just about to begin.
In the wide field below him, he beheld two
posts set up about a half-mile apart.
A great ball had been thrown into the central
space between them ; and, at each post, were
gathered about one hundred Indians, all armed
with bats, or curved sticks, with a sort of racket
at their ends.
The game consisted in so hitting the ball Avith
the bat, as to drive it up against one or other of
the opposing posts.
A wild sight, it Avas, to witness — some two
168
LOT Leslie’s folks.
hundred great, brown, naked creatures, leaping
and racing over the field, their long black hair
fiying behind them in the wind.
Now, they struggled together in a dense mass
on the ground, like players in a modern game
of football. Again, they rushed shouting about,
striking madly with their bats, tripping up their
opponents, and tossing them around, like so many
rag-dolls.
And, all the while, the gates of the fort stood
wide open.
The English soldiers lounged outside in the
sunshine, or perched on the pickets of the pali-
sade, watching the game with merry interest.
Quite off their guard, they laughed and chatted
with a great crowd of Canadians who had
gathered to see the play.
Some of the British officers — handsome, dash-
ing fellows in brilliant uniforms of scarlet velvet
and gold lace — stood at the gates, exchanging
bets on the odds of the game.^
It was a beautiful, warm day in the Indian
summer ; and Timothy wondered, as he gazed,
that the groups of squaws who squatted before
the palisades, could wear, as they did, their
heavy blankets wrapped closely about them.
* Many of the incidents of this chapter actually occurred in one
of the colonies, eight years later than the date of our story.
A FATAL GAME OF BALL.
169
It was not very long before he knew the
reason why.
He looked sharply about for Alexander, but
could see nothing of him. And, after a while,
tiring of the uproar, and of the struggling, brutal
horse-play of those hideous, naked savages (whom
he detested), he went back to his table, and re-
sumed his writing.
Not more than fifteen minutes later, a loud
Indian war-cry rose suddenly upon the air, fol-
lowed by a horrid noise and confusion in the
court below.
Timothy sprang to the window.
Ilis blood curdled in his veins as he looked.
He saw, at once, the dreadful plot that lay
beneath the (sometime) merry game of Baggat-
iioay.
The Indians had purposely batted the ball into
the grounds of the fort ; and then, making a
feint of the grand rush to secure it again, had
swarmed inside the gates !
As they ran, shrieking their hideous war-whoop,
they snatched from the squaws at the palisades,
the hatchets they had been hiding under their
blankets during the game, and cut down the
English soldiers, right and left.
Presently, Timothy saw Alexander in a deadly
struggle, at the gate, with a powerful savage,
armed to the teeth.
170
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
He turned sick with horror, as he saw his
friend, (quickly worsted in the encounter), drop
gashed and bleeding under the fiendish strokes
of the other’s tomahawk.
When he heard the dreadful scalp-yell, he
looked wildly about the room for some weapon
of defence.
In a corner, a fowling-piece leaned against the
wall.
He seized it, and found it loaded with swan-
shot.
Holding it fast, he listened intently for the tap
of the drum, calling the men of the post to arms.
Alas ! the garrison, surprised and overwhelmed,
made no show of resistance. He saw Captain
Gorell and his subordinate officers taken prisoners,
and led away toward the woods. It was easy to
guess what awaited them there !
There was no time to be lost. In a few mo-
ments, the slaughter and scalping on the ground-
floor would be at an end, and the blood-thirsty
savages would then swarm over the rest of the
building, seeking fresh victims.
Timothy ran to a back window, looking out
upon the house of a Frenchman, named Quiller-
iez, a foolish old fellow, who was gay as a butter-
fly, and vain as a peacock.
His cabin, like the fort, had two stories ; and,
from its upper window, facing the one at which
A FATAL GAME OF BALL.
lYl
Timothy now stood, a stout rope for drying
clothes had been stretched across, and secured to
the opposite wall of the fort.
This had been done in the r(jcent days of the
French occupation; and the victors had been
careless. Only that morning, one of the British
olRcers had drawn the commandant’s attention to
the neglect ; but the man who had been ordered
to remove the rope, had been too busy with Bag-
gatiway to execute his superior’s order.
He had paid for his disobedience with his life.
And old Quilleriez’s clothes’ line remained undis-
turbed.
Grindstone hurried to poor Alexander’s pack,
and tpok out of it, almost with tears, the safe-
conduct letters, and Pontiac’s strip of wampum.
Hiding these in his breast, with his dead
friend’s watch and purse, he snatched up another
long, sharp knife from the pack, and thrust it
into his belt with his own knife and pistols.
Then, he leaped to the window-sill, caught at
the taut rope, like a sailor or a monkey, and
swung himself across the narrow space to the
open window on the other side.
As he went, he could see old Quilleriez, stand-
ing at a lower window, in his fanciful, many-
colored dress and gaudy moccasins, watching the
dreadful scenes in the court beyond.
All was quiet and sunny in this back region
172
LOT LESLIE’S EOLKS.
over which Timothy travelled on his tight-rope,
unseen.
He blessed the warmth of the day that had
led to the opening of that garret window, as he
scrambled into Quilleriez’s loft, and cut loose the
friendly rope with his knife. He then let down
the sash, and pushed in at its top, a stout nail that
he found on the sill.
He drew a long breath, that was almost a sob
— and looked about him.
It was a rude attic, low-ceiled, and at that
season, intensely hot. Some winged thing — a
wasp or a blue-bottle fly — had sailed in from the
sunny outside world, and was buzzing loudly as
it beat itself dully, in impotent captivity, gainst
the small window-pane, or the cobwebbed rafters.
The place was bare of furniture. The walls
were of loose boards, and through a chink in
them, Grindstone could see the awful slaughter
still going on in the grounds of the post.
He saw the dead scalped and mangled ; and
heard the dying still groaning or shrieking, as
their bodies were ripped open by their Indian
butchers.
Shuddering, he watched those demons in sav-
age shape, tear out the hearts of their victims,
and actually drink their blood, which they
scooped up in the hollow of their joined hands,
and quaffed, with shouts of victorious rage.
A FATAL GAME OF BALL.
173
It was a perfect orgie of murderous hate and
revenge, worthy of hell.
In a few moments, the awful silence of complete
annihilation fell upon the courtyard ; and then,
to Timothy’s horror, he heard the Indians tramp-
ing into the room below his refuge.
Nothing but a single layer of boards shut him
off from their sight !
Through a knot-hole in that crazy floor, he saw
and heard all that passed beneath him.
The Indians at once asked old Quilleriez if
there were any Englishmen about. (And Timo-
thy now knew enough of their lingo to under-
stand their questions.) The old dandy looked
very wise and consequential. Part of his fool-
ishness was a desire to impress the savages with
a profound sense of his own importance. He
would have them believe him as knowledgeable
as Solomon himself.
‘‘ I can’t say,” was his pompous reply to their
queries. “I don’t know of any Englishmen,”
(which was the truth) : but you may search for
yourselves, and then you’ll be better satisfled.”
Fancy Timothy’s terror on hearing this per-
mission !
Trembling, he glared madly about him for
some possible hiding-place.
In the darkest corner of the loft, under the
sloping rafters, was piled a great heap of those
174
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
basins of birch-bark which Quilleriez, Indian
wife used (in common with her kind) for making
maple-sugar.
Like lightning, Timothy sprang to this retreat ;
and, while the miserable ladder, that did duty
for stairs, creaked under the weight of the com-
ing savages, he hid himself as well as he could,
among the friendly birch vessels.
He had hardly done so, before the door
opened, and Quilleriez came in, with four of the
biggest Indians he had ever seen. They were
armed with tomahawks, and be smeared with
blood from head to foot.
Timothy’s heart beat so loud at the hideous
sight of them, that he felt sure its throbbing
alone would betray him. But his corner was so
dark, and his clothing so like in color to the
birch-bark that covered him, that he escaped the
notice of the Indians.
It was in his favor, too, that they were all very
drunk, having already swilled freely from the
fort’s rifled liquor-supply.
Yet, he almost despaired when they staggered
several times around the loft, even tripping over
some of the outlying sugar-vessels^ — one of them,
in recovering himself, almost laying hold of Tim-
othy’s shoulder. But, after blustering about with
much tipsy boasting, and a long account to Quil-
leriez of how many English they had killed, that
A FATAL GAME OF BALL.
175
day, and how many scalps they had taken, they
all reeled off downstairs, leaving Timothy half-
suffocated by the stifling heat, and dripping with
perspiration.
Our poor friend almost fainted from the reac-
tion of his fright, and the great rush of gratitude
to God for His mercies.
Strangely enough, as he lay there upon his
face, shedding hot, silent tears (which were no
disgrace to his manhood), and afraid yet to stir
— all he could see before him in the darkness
was the altar of the Jesuit’s church at the As-
sumption Mission with the tapers burning redly
upon it, and the venerable man in his strange
garments lifting up above it the White Wafer
and the Golden Cup. And he found himself
saying over and over again in his heart, with-
out knowing why he did so : “ God of the
Jesuit, I adore Thee ! God of Father Armand,
I thank Thee ! ”
After all was quiet downstairs, and the pres-
ent peril seemingly past, Timothy crept out from
his corner, feeling very much the need of food,
and (still more) of drink : for it was many hours
since he had breakfasted in the mess-room of the
fort.
He was weak from the heat, as well, and ex-
hausted by the great strain of the morning’s
fright and horror.
176
LOT Leslie’s folks.
A feather-bed lay on the floor of the garret,
stored there for the winter’s use.
Timothy lay down upon it; and soon forgot
the discomforts of heat, hunger, and thirst in a
heavy sleep.
CHAPTER XIII.
IN THE SHADOW OF DEATH — AN UNEXPECTED
MEETING.' ‘
Grindstone was awakened by a loud and
smart patter of rain upon the roof. As he lay,
dreamily and drowsily, listening to it, he heard
the water pouring in upon the floor from a break
in the shingles overhead.
It had just occurred to him that he might
catch this lucky downpour in one of the birch-
bark bowls, and, with it, quench his now burning
thirst, when he was startled by the opening of
the garret door.
The dark, sullen face of a squaw that looked in
upon him, gave him a fresh turn of terror.
But it proved to be the Indian wife of Quil-
leriez.
She was, naturally, much surprised to find a
strange man in her garret — dropped down, as it
were, upon her, from the skies. When Timothy
fell upon his knees, however, and made speaking
gestures, craving mercy at her hands — she man-
aged to make him understand that he need have
no further fears — that the Indians had killed all
the English, and had gone away for good. She
177
178
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
soon showed him, also, what had brought her up
to the loft.
Hunting up some old rags from a corner, she
proceeded to stop the hole in the roof, through
which the rain was still pouring.
Timothy at once hastened to help her as
handily as he could ; and when their task wi.S
done, he let her know, in pantomine, how badly
he needed food and drink.
She promised, in like fashion, to bring him
both : and presently, went away downstairs.
Timothy had some fears as to her good faith ;
but he felt rebuked when she returned, in a short
time, with a substantial mess of bread and meat
on a platter, and a jug of fresh water.
When she left him alone again, Timothy fell
to eating with a keen relish, and made a hearty
meal, despite of his anxiety as to what might
come to him at any moment.
‘Having dispatched all the food, and drank
enough water to satisfy his thirst, he knelt down,
and thanked God in simple words for having
spared him thus far, beseeching Him to take care'
of him in the future, and direct him what to do
to escape his enemies. He had never been what
is called a religious man : but his life had been
clean and honest ; and recent events had shown
him forcibly how small and weak is man in times
of peril — how great, wise, and powerful, the
m THE SIIADOVv' OF DEATH.
179
Providence that directs the destinies of the
meanest.
Much comforted by his supper, and much
strengthened by his prayer, Timothy threw him-
self once more on the feather-bed, and presently,
fell fast asleep.
It was clear daylight, when he roused again, to
hear voices disputing in the room below him.
He soon made out that the Indians had re-
turned.
They were urging Quilleriez to give up to them
the old man with the long white hair and beard
who had come to the post with the English
trader, the night previous.
Some one (they said) had seen him, yesterday,
climbing in at a window of the old Frenchman’s
house.
Timothy had forgotten about his wig and false
beard, in that rapid rush of dreadful events.
He now snatched them from his head and face,
and stuffed them under the bed.
He heard Quilleriez trying to baffle his pur-
surers : but his wife, in a low voice, and in
French, was urging her man to give up the
Yankee to them, as otherwise, they might kill
her or her children, in revenge.
The husband, after brief silence, yielded to
her fears. He told the savages that, if there
were an Englishman hidden in his house, it was
180
LOT Leslie’s folks.
without his knowledge, and against his wishes.
To prove his good faith, he would again take
them upstairs to search for him.
Timothy now felt that his hour had come.
He made no further attempt to hide himself ;
but, when the door of the room was flung open,
and the Indians rushed in a second time, he rose
tip quietly from the bed, and stood before them,
his arms folded on his breast, white and silent as
a marble statue.
The savages were plainly much surprised, and
almost overawed, to see, instead of the grey-
beard they were seeking, a young, brown-haired
vigorous man, with no trace of beard upon his
face.
It was like one of the magical tricks of their
medicine-man.
One of them, a great savage, six feet high and
over, (who towered to the very rafters of the
low-ceiled room) was covered from head to foot
with charcoal and grease, except for two hideous
white rings around his bloodshot eyes.
Timothy recognized him as the Indian who
had slain Henry Alexander, that morning, at the
gate.
He was forced to lower his eyes, as he saw,
with a sickening thrill of horror, the bloody
scalp of his dead friend, with its thick mass of
yellow hair, dangling from the brute’s belt.
m THE SIIxVDOW OF DEATH.
181
Striding up to Grindstone, the giant seized
him by the collar, and pointed at his breast a big
carving-knife, stolen from the kitchen of the fort.
Timothy mutely recommended his soul to
God ; and met the horrid eyes of the savage with
a calm, steady gaze — the simple dignity of a
brave man resigned to the will of heaven.
The earnest power of his eye seemed to subdue
the human brute. The hand that held the knife
dropped, without harming him ; and the Indian
growled to his fellows :
“Take him downstairs! We’ll not kill him
now.”
In the room below, they found old Quilleriez
smoking his pipe, and conversing confidentially
with a priest.
Timothy knew him to be one by his black
gown and crucifix, even if his fine, serious, ascetic
face had not told its own story.
At the sight of him, hope revived once more in
the poor prisoner’s heart. Hitherto, he had
despaired of any benefit from the safe-conduct
letters he carried. It had seemed useless to pre-
sent them to the frenzied savages, or the time-
serving Frenchman.
One of his hands was still free. From his
bosom, he drew forth Father Armand’s letter,
and held it out to the priest with a world of
entreaty in his honest eyes.
1S2
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
The Jesuit unfolded the paper, and read its
contents, surprise and pleasure flushing his face,
which broke into a beaming smile.
“You are a friend of Father Armand?” he
said in excellent English : “ Ah ! then, you are the
friend of a saint ! He was my best-loved mate
at college. I am now on my way to visit him.”
“ Take me with you, sir, for the love of
heaven ! ” pleaded Timothy, also in English : “ or
these brutes will murder me ! ”
The savages had closed around him, and were
hustling him, as he spoke, through the door to
the road.
“ Hold ! ” cried the priest in a loud, clear,
commanding voice, laying his hand on the pris-
oner’s shoulder, and bearing himself (Timothy
thought) with the soldierly grace and courage of
a general reproving refractory insurgents :
“ This man belongs to me ! Go your ways ; and
look to it, that you stop your bloody work, and
drink no more rum or whiskey to-day ! ”
The Indians instantly slunk away, like scolded
children ; and Timothy found himself safe, and
alone with the Jesuit.
“ How shall I call you, sir,” he said with deep
emotion : “ that I may thank you for your good-
ness ? ”
“ I am known as Father Eugene,” returned the
priest, smiling : “ and, on my word, you have
m THE SHADOW OF DEATH.
183
just had a close reckoning with death. There’s
no time to be lost, even yet. These fellows are
very unreliable in their moods. They may be
back again, in the space of ten minutes, raging
for your blood. I have a boat out yonder on the
lake, and a trusty man to row us.”
“ Let us, then, be off at once, sir ! ” urged
Timothy, moving towards the open door.
“ Best go by way of the cellar,” suggested old
Quilleriez, who had just returned to the room,
after a brief absence.
‘‘ Good ! ” cried the priest, with a nod at the
Frenchman : ’twill be safer than the road, and
may prevent unpleasant encounters. Follow me.
Master Grindstone.”
And Timothy, with a grateful heart, was soon
tracking Father Eugene down a rough ladder to
the 'cellar. There, they struck an underground
passage that led to the shore of the lake — now
completely deserted by the Indians and their
allies.
Once in the boat awaiting them there, (with a
stout young Canadian to row them), the priest
told Timothy that Father Armand was lying
very ill at the Assumption Mission.
He had had a letter from Father Peter, telling of
a fresh stroke of paralysis. As the communica-
tion was now several weeks old, he knew not if
the Superior were living or dead.
184
LOT Leslie’s folks.
Grindstone expressed his real concern at this
sad news; and, as the day wore on, growing
more and more at his ease with the priest, whose
accent puzzled him : and recalling what he had
said about having been Father Armand’s college-
mate in France, he made bold to ask him how it
came to pass that he talked English not only ex-
tremely well, but more with the tongue of an
Irishman than a Frenchman.
Father Eugene laughed, and good-naturedly
explained that he was, indeed, of Irish birth and
blood, but educated mainly in France.
Somehow or other,” he added: “in spite of
many years of the ‘ Parlez-voits^ I have never
been able to lose a touch of the good old brogue
from my tongue. Aprh-tout^ (although you may
not know it, my friend), the Irish brogue, as it is
called, was really the best English of the days of
Shakspere. Old Queen Bess herself used to say
cowld for cold, and hate for heat. If she were
here, this minute, (the old termagant ! ) she’d say
it’s a mighty cowld evening we’re having, after
all the hate of an Indian summer day ! ”
There was truth in this, as well as fun ; for the
air had ceased to be balmy, and a chill, pene-
trating mist was striking the voyagers, from the
river. But Timothy soon found the priest was
prepared for the emergency. There was a plenty
of warm rugs in the boat, as, also, of good food
IN THE SHADOW OF DEATH.
185
for the journey. Being, thus, well wrapped and
well-fed, the travellers floated comfortably and
peacefully along their watery way to northern
New York.
The great lakes safely crossed, they drew near,
after many days, to the mouth of the Detroit
river, where Timothy resumed his white wig and
beard, as a precaution against spying Caughne-
wagas.
It was not until he held little Willy once more
close to his breast, and felt the boy’s warm arms
tighten around his neck, that he realized how
precious life still was to him, after all the dread-
ful risks he had suffered.
Father Peter gave the visitors a hearty wel-
come ; and cheered them with the news that the
Superior still lived, although badly paralyzed.
Word had come from Quebec, to fetch the in-
valid home to rest ; but, although it was a mild,
open winter, it was now close upon Christmas,
and it was not deemed safe to travel so far with
so helpless a charge as Father Armand in his
present condition.
Little Willy was simply devoted to him. It
was his joy to sit near him, and wait upon him ;
and Timothy soon saw how gentle and reflned
the boy had grown from constant companionship
with the old scholar and saint.
He was not much surprised when the little fel-
186
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
low came to him, one day, (on his return from a
visit to the Belleperches — poor Alexander’s rela-
tives), and begged his permission to become a
Catholic. He had studied the Catechism thor-
oughly, (he said) and if Timothy, as his guardian,
would only give consent. Father Peter would
baptize him on Christmas Eve.
This proposition cost the good Grindstone con-
siderable thought. Although he did not yet feel
like going the same lengths as Willy, it seemed
to him, from his queer experiences in his first
visit to the Assumption church, and in the garret
of Quilleriez, the day after Alexander’s murder —
that the religion of these three priests he had en-
countered, had a great deal in it that was both
true arid beautiful.
Ignorance, prejudice, and early environment,
had blinded him, before his captivity, to any real
knowledge of Koman Catholicism ; but his long
talks with Father Eugene in the boats, and on
their lonely tramps overland, had opened his
eyes on a number of important points, so that
he now thought it safe to consent to the boy’s
baptism.
Willy was in high spirits after that, varying
his quiet times of study in the Superior’s room,
with long trots through the snow to the church,
where he helped Father Peter and Father Eugene
to decorate the sanctuary for Christmas.
IN THE SHADOW OF DEATH.
187
Timothy himself took a hand, in time, at clean-
ing the candlesticks and other brass ornaments,
and fetching evergreens from the forest to set
around the altars in wooden boxes. He felt
quite proud when he succeeded, under Father
Peter’s instructions, in stringing the spicy
branches, so as to form glistening arches of
holly and spruce for all the pillars and galleries
of the house of God.
A Bethlehem crib was put up near one of the
side-altars ; and Willy nearly went wild with
delight when he saw, for the first time, the
lovely, lifelike figures of the Divine Mother and
Babe, of St. Joseph and the animals, the shep-
herds and the kings, that Father Peter drew from
the sacristy-closet, and set in their places in the
little stable.
When all was finished, it was Christmas Eve.
The church was beautiful to behold, being like a
holy, woodland bower, full of delicious odors of
spice and sweetness.
Timothy {minus his wig and beard in honor of
the occasion), Willy, and the Belleperches, were
gathered in the sacristy, about noon, waiting,
with Father Eugene for the coming of Father
Peter. He was to baptize the boy ; and unusually
fiushed and disturbed was his merry face as, at
last, he hurried in.
Madame,” said he, courteously, in a low tone,
188
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
to Mistress Belleperche, the only woman present :
‘‘ Willy has already asked you to be his godmother.
May I now trouble you, at short notice, to do the
same kind office for three others whom I shall
presently baptize ? ”
While Madame Belleperche — a short, round,
rosy old lady — was assenting with voluble grace.
Father Peter went to the door leading to the
church, and beckoned in a group of women
waiting there, with shawls or blankets over their
heads.
There was scarcely time to note that two of
this company were Indians, and three, whites —
before a strange outcry burst forth on all sides,
such as had never before been heard in that holy,
silent place :
“ Timothy Geihdstone ! ”
‘‘ Peudekce Skillet ! ”
‘‘ Faith ! ” “ Hope ! ” Wilsoh ! ”
And, in an instant, the five wanderers from
Swan Island, so tragically separated — thus
strangely brought together, once more — were
clinging to each other, crying, laughing, talking
all at once, half -crazy with the sudden joy of
their unexpected reunion.
Out of the tumult, at last, rose the shrill voice
of Prudence, who leaned half-exhausted against
Mary and Catharine Tarbuki, crying : “ ‘ My soul
doth magnify the Lord, and my spirit hath re-
IK THE SHADOW OF DEATH.
189
joiced in God my Saviour.’ . . . ‘ The sparrow
hath found her a house, and the turtle, a nest
where she may lay her young — Thine altars, O
my King and my God ! ’ ”
CHAPTER XIT.
THE SECRET OF THE SCALES, AND WHAT
CAME OF IT.
Summer had bloomed early and sudden in the
Indian Mission of Lorette.
A long spell of damp, hot weather (almost un-
known to that high latitude), had made swift
work with the snowdrifts, and forced everything
green into warm and vivid life.
The fields were covered with wild flowers, the
soft air was alive with the song of birds, and,
before the middle of June, the great trees of the
forest rustled their full robes, and whispered
together, like overdressed beauties in a crowded
ballroom.
It was the feast of St. Anthony, and a wonder-
ful day at the Mission. All the long, bright morn-
ing, the Indians had been coming in, from near or
distant settlements, to take part in the afternoon
procession.
Many brought their tents along, and pitched
them on the outskirts of the village. By noon,
Lorette was like a huge beehive with its
swarms of big and little Indians, running hither
and thither, chatting, smoking, wrestling, or
190
THE SECRET OF THE SCALES.
191
painting themselves with the brightest of gaudy
colors.
The great statue of St. Anthony, in its green
square before the church, was the chief centre of
attraction.
• <
Crowds of Indians stood or squatted there, lost
in admiration of the jeweled crown upon the
head of the saint and of the Divine Infant that he
carried ; or staring delightedly at the brave show
of gilded banners that glittered and waved from
out huge masses of white and red roses, about the
base of the statue. These could not quite hide
the Latin inscription on the pedestal, that read :
Presented to the Mission at Lorette
BY Louis St. Ange and Eileen, his wife,
IN memory of their beloved daughter, Marianne.
June the Thirteenth, a. d. 1754.
About two o’clock, the procession began to
form, as far out on the edge of the village as
where the visitors’ tents were pitched.
The lay Brothers of the Mission were kept
busy, going to and fro, arranging great and small,
young and old, according to their proper places
in the ranks.
It was a charming sight, and one witnessed no-
where in its wiki, picturesque beauty, save among
the Christianized aborigines of the Hew World
192
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
First, came the little children, two and two, clad
in loose gowns of white cotton, and wearing
Avreaths of wild flowers on their pretty heads.
Each carried a small Indian basket, out of which,
they scattered, as they went, handfuls of rose-
leaves on the path.
Next, walked the maidens, also in Avhite, white-
veiled and flower-crowned, their double rank di-
vided by a long rope of scarlet roses, to which
each slender girl held fast by one hand, whilst
she grasped her rosary-beads Avith the other.
The young men followed, bearing beautiful
banners of gay silk, painted Avith pictures of the
Blessed Virgin and of the saints, and embroidered
Avith gold or silver tinsel that sparkled brilliantly
in the clear sunlight. These were the work and
gift of the IJrsuline nuns of Quebec.
Here and there, in the ranks, a maiden or a
3^outh carried rustic cages of wicker-work, con-
taining white doves, red-breasted robins, or other
smaller birds, Avhich they let loose, from time to
time, along the route. The soft flutter of wings
and the happy tAvitter of the released captives
mingled with the SAveet strains of the Litany of
LorettOy sung by the full, melodious voices of the
marchers, to an accompaniment of native flutes,
fifes, and drums.
The old people kept step, in pairs, as gallantly
as the young.
THE SECRET OF THE SCALES.
193
The women all wore white veils upon their
heads ; and, right behind the plumed and painted
men, came the priest of the Mission in gown and
surplice, attended by a score of Indian acolytes
in their scarlet woollen cossacks.
Noticeable among these,was a handsome, white-
skinned boy, with bright auburn hair, carrying a
great crucifix of brass that glittered like gold in
the sun.
When the head of the procession reached the
statue of St. Anthony, the two long ranks sepa-
rated in front of it, by a simultaneous movement,
leaving a broad passageway for the approach of
the priest and his acolytes to the shrine.
Father Eugene (for it was he) knelt for a few
moments on the prayer-stool at the foot of the
statue: and then, rising, entoned the favorite
hymn of St. Anthony, “(9 Gloriosa Domina^'^
which all the people began, at once, to sing with
him, with great sweetness and vigor :
** O glorious Virgin, ever blest,
All daughters of mankind above.
Who gavest nurture from thy breast
To God, with pure, maternal love,
“ What we have lost through sinful Eve,
The Blossom sprung from thee restores,
And, granting bliss to souls that grieve,
Unbars the everlasting doors.
194 LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
** O Gate, through which hath passed the King !
O Hall, whence light shone through the gloom !
The ransomed nations praise and sing
The Offspring of thy virgin womb !
** Praise from mankind, and heaven’s host
To Jesus of a virgin sprung,
To Father and to Holy Ghost,
Be equal glory ever sung ! ”
Turning to the singers, and motioning them
with his hand to sit down upon the grass, as the
Divine Master did of yore to the multitudes who
followed Him in Judea, the priest began to speak
to them in simple words, (and in their own tongue)
of the great St. Anthony — of his glory and power,
both in heaven and on earth.
While he was telling them of the saint’s devout
life among the Augustines at Lisbon, with the
Franciscans in Morocco, and later, as a mighty
missioner in Bologna and Padua, where he died
singing the 0 Gloriosa Domina in the presence
(as he declared) of the glorious Queen of heaven
and her Divine Son, who came to meet him, — a
small, dark woman, in the white cap and apron
of a waiting-maid, was seen coming from the
near-by Mission house, supporting on her. arm a
tall lady clad in deepest mourning.
They noiselessly drew near the shrine, the
worshippers making way for them as they came,
THE SECKET OF THE SCALES.
195
while a lay Brother set down at the iron-railing,
a prayer-stool for the lady.
She knelt upon it, bowing low her head, and
hiding her face in the thick folds of the long,
black veil she wore.
Father Eugene’s sympathetic eye fell for a
moment upon the graceful, black-robed figure,
that seemed almost bent double with its weight
of woe ; but a peculiar light, as of secret exulta-
tion, came into it, as he went on to tell his
listeners a little story of the saint of Padua.
A picture, (he said) had been painted by a
great artist, three centuries before, for a grand
church in Borne. It was that of St. Anthony.
He was there depicted as holding in his right
hand a big book on which rested a loaf of bread,
whilst his left hand pressed to his bosom a bright,
glowing flame.
“ What signify these things, my children ? ”
said the priest. “ What mean this loaf of bread
— this flame of fire? The fire represents St
Anthony’s burning love for God and his fellov
men. The bread recalls a miracle that happened
in Padua, not long after our saint’s death. Ck se
to the church that was there builded to his
honor, a baby boy named Tomasino was drowned,
while playing at a pond. When his little corpse
was taken from the water, his mother, half-crazy
from grief, threw herself uprn the small, drip-
196
LOT LESLIE’S 1 OLKS.
ping body, crying out to St. Anthony that if he
would but restore her son to her, alive and well,
she vowed to give to the poor a measure of corn,
equal to the weight of the child. Immediately,
the dead boy rose up in living beauty, and ran,
smiling, into the outstretched arms of his happy
mother ! ”
A sob broke from the breast of the black-
veiled lady at the prie-dieit. She bowed her
head lower and lower upon her hands ; but again,
the strange, exultant light came into Father
Eugene’s eyes, and a faint smile hovered about
his firm lips.
To-day, dear children,” he continued, looking
around upon his people : ‘‘ to-day, your devoted
friend, your generous benefactress, Madame St.
Ange, is about to renew on her own behalf, the
noble offering made to our saint by the poor
mother of Padua, more than five hundred and
twenty years ago. She offers to the poor of this
mission, a measure of flour equal to the weight
of a child of five years — equal to what might
now be the weight of her little lost daughter,
Marianne St. Ange. — Brother Loyola, see to it
that your men do their work ! ”
The lay Brother, at this word from the priest,
made a sign to a group of Indians at the door of
the Mission strong-house, close at hand. Several
of these powerful fellows immediately brought
THE SECHET OF THE SCALES.
197
forward an enormous pair of scales, while the
rest lugged to the front of the shrine, some huge
bags of flour.
‘‘ When the grain of this meal was first planted,”
said Father Eugene, “ you must know, my dear
children, that I went about the field, sprinkling
it with holy water, and saying these solemn
words : ‘ Bless ^ 0 Lord^ this seed^ and through
the merits of otcr blessed father^ St. Anthony.^ deign
to midtiply it^ and cause it to bring forth fruit
a hundredfold., and preserve it from lightning
and tempest. Who livest and reignest^ world with-
out end., Amen.^ Praise to God’s goodness, it
has multiplied, it has brought forth fruit a hun-
dredfold ! Now, all that we need is the weight
whereby to test the measure. Joseph ! ” said he
aside to the white acolyte who held the crucifix,
tell N’-o-kum to fetch the child without delay.”
“ Pardon, my Father,” interposed Brother
Loyola, “but the infant is already in the bal-
ance.”
And Father Eugene, stepping closer to the
scales, had to bite back the smile upon his lips,
as he saw the plump form of a little girl curled
up, asleep, in the deep dish of the balance.
He quickly recovered himself, however, slip-
ping on his stole, as the Indians, instructed by the
lay Brother, began to shovel the fair white flour
from the sacks into the empty balance of the
198
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS
scales. Then, he proceeded to read from his old-
time Kitual, as follows :
‘‘Blessing of corn of the weight of a
CHILD — Benedictio ad pondus pueri :
“We humbly beseech Thy clemency, O Lord
Jesus Christ, through the merits and prayers of
our most glorious father St. Anthony, that Thou
wouldst deign to preserve from ill, fits, plague,
epidemic, fever, and mortality this. Thy servant,
whom in Thy name, and in honor of our blessed
father St. Anthony, we place in this balance with
wheat, the weight of her body, for the comfort
of the poor. . . . Deign to give her length
of days, and permit her to attain the evening of
life ; and, by the merits and prayers of the Saint
we invoke, grant her a portion of Thy holy and
eternal inheritance, guarding and preserving her
from all her enemies. Who livest and reignest
with the Father and the Holy Ghost, world with-
out end. Amen.”
Dipping his sprinkler in the silver vessel which
Josepli held toward him, the priest finished the
benediction with a plentiful dash of the holj^
water over both balances of the scales, now rest-
ing evenly on their standard.
A queer little scream came from the human
side of the scales ! The cold water on her face
had awakened the little one from her nap.
THE SECRET OF THE SCALES.
199
She scrambled to her feet, and tried to stand
upright in the dish — holding fast with plump
fingers to its rim, as it wobbled about, and star-
ing over it, bewildered and only half-awake, at
the throng of dark faces before her. A murmur
of admiration went up, on every side, even from
the Indians.
She was all in white, with a wreath of wild
flowers on her pretty head — a lovely, rosy little
girl, with great, black, wonderful eyes, almost
velvety in their softness, and damp rings of red-
gold hair curling upon her broad, white forehead.
Her dimpled neck and arms were bare, and
drops of holy water glittered on them, like dew-
drops upon fresh lilies.
Madame St. Ange hearing the murmur from
the crowd, and feeling oppressed by the heat,
flung back her long, black veil, and found her-
self face to face with this amazing — this most
charming apparition.
“ Mamma, dear little mamma ! ” cried the
Weight in the balance, making frantic efforts to
leap from the dish.
It was too much for the heart and nerves of
the poor, overwrought lady.
With a heavy sigh, and a murmured :
Marianne, at last ! St. Anthony be praised
and thanked ! ” — she reeled, and fell in a deep
swoon into Margot’s faithful arms.
200
LOT Leslie’s folks.
When she came to herself, she was in a room
of the Mission house with her maid and Father
Eugene.
Lying there upon a rude couch, in happy weak-
ness and languor, she could hear softly, yet dis-
tinctly, the voices of the Indians in the distance,
chanting a musical chorus. They were singing
the Hymn to St. Anthony.^ as their solemn proces-
sion marched back, in the red light of the setting
sun, to its starting-point at the tents.
Madame listened dreamily to these words that
St. Bonaventure wrote in honor of his holy
friend :
“ If then you ask for miracles,
Death, error, all calamities.
The leprosy and demons fly.
And health succeeds infirmities.
The hungry seas forego their prey,
The prisoner’s cruel chains give way,
While palsied limbs and treasures lost
Both young and old, recovered, boast.
<< And perils perish, plenty’s hoard
Is heaped on hunger’s famished board:
Let those relate who know it well.
Let Padua of her patron tell ! ”
The priest drew near the couch whereon the
lady lay, and stooped over her, feeling her pulse
with a skilful touch.
Margot curtsied to him, and quitted the
THE SECEET OE THE SCALES.
201
room. It was easy to surmise whither she had
gone, and for what purpose.
“You are better, my child?” said Father
Eugene presently, in a very gentle voice.
“Was it a dream?” the.Jady answered, for-
getting herself and her weakness : “ or did I
really see my darling, my little Marianne again ?
Tell me the truth, my Father, and I shall believe
you, although I know you not. They told me
Fatlier Armand was here.”
“ Father Armand is here,” said the priest :
“but too ill to leave his bed. You have really
seen 3"our little daughter, and in a few moments,
when you are better, you shall see her again, and
take her home with you.”
He paused, and looked steadfastly at her, be-
fore he added :
“ Are you strong enough, my child, to support
another surprise ? ”
Her lovely eyes dilated, and she grew a shade
paler about her lips ; but she smiled in his face
with the trustfulness of a little child looking up
to its father for comfort.
“ Eileen ! ” said he, and his voice trembled a
little : “ do you not know me ? But wh}^ should
I ask it? You were but a child when I went
away to college. I am your father’s brother,
Eugene O’Connell ! ”
i “ Thanks be to God ! ” was all she said, but
202
LOT Leslie’s folks.
the happy light deepened in her eyes, and the
warm color in her pale cheeks.
“But Louis, your husband?” questioned Fa-
ther Eugene : “ does that black dress you wear,
— that widow’s cap upon your young head, mean
that ”
“He died less than a year gone, heaven rest
his precious soul ! ” murmured Eileen, as she
wiped away a tear. “ He was lost in the forest
of Detroit for a day and night, last autumn was
a year. At his age, the exposure and strain were
fatal. He never recovered from the fever that
followed.”
“ Mamma, mamma ! I want my mamma ! ”
cried a sweet, wilful voice at the door, and little
Love Leslie burst into the room, like a small
whirlwind, escaping gleefully from the clutches
of Margot, who pursued her with a little garden-
hat in her hand. She darted straight into Ma-
dame’s outstretched arms, like a wild bird into
its nest, and cuddled close to her, while the bliss-
ful Eileen showered kisses of passionate warmth
upon the tender cheek, and brow, and lips.
The touch of the child, the sound of her merry
voice, her soft, warm pressure on her bosom and
arms, seemed to revive Eileen as with a life-giv-
ing cordial ; and presently, to Father Eugene’s
surprise, she stood up, and began to straighten
Love’s tumbled dress and ringlets. Then, with
THE SECRET OF THE SCALES.
203
Margot’s assistance, she tied on her own bonnet,
and expressed herself as strong enough to depart
for Quebec, where she had been staying with
some friends of her husband.
As it was only eight miles distant, and her
own handsome coach and horses were at hand to
convey her thither, her uncle could make no ob-
jections.
She would gladly have carried him oif with
lier, then and there, but it was impossible.
Promising to visit her at Montreal, (his own
duties permitting) as soon as she should be set-
tled again at home, the priest took little Love by
the hand to lead her to the carriage.
But that strong-spirited young lady soon
showed them that she had a mind of her own —
that she did not intend to turn her back ungrate-
fully upon the one friend she valued most at
Lorette. Even the delightful prospect of riding
home, like Princess Belle-helle in a beautiful
chariot, could not tempt her from her allegiance.
‘‘ Mamma ! ” she cried, stopping short with a
bewitching smile and gesture : “ I can’t go home
without Joseph ! ”
‘‘And what, pray, is Joseph?” asked Eileen
highly amused (we are sorry to say) at her darl-
ing’s wilfulness : “ is.it a dog, or a cat, or a wild
Indian ? ”
“Wait, till you see, little mamma,” said Love,
204
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
trotting with business-like alacrity to the door of
the room. ‘‘ He’s just outside here, in the hall,
where I told him to stay ! ”
And, in a moment, she was back again, like a
dancing sunbeam, pulling in with her Joseph, the
acolyte, now in his Indian dress, and looking
rather red and frightened.
“ It’s a wild Indian after all ! ” sighed Madame
in despair ; then, suddenly struck by the strong
likeness between the children, as they stood,
hand in hand, before her :
“ Who is this boy ? ” she asked, almost sharply,
of Father Eugene, who was laughing, and pinch-
ing Joseph’s blushing cheek.
A pet of Father Armand,” returned the
priest. “ He accompanied him hither, with me,
from the Huron Mission. I don’t see how he
will part with him.”
Father Armand said he would let me go, if
Madame wished it,” said the little fellow quietly :
although if it were not for Marianne (whom I
love), I would be very loath to leave him.”
Father Eugene, looking keenly at the boy’s
bright, manly face, suddenly remembered the
record of the Leslie family that Father Peter had
shown him at the Assumption Mission, when he
told him Timoth3’'’s thrilling story.
He drew closer to his niece, and spoke to her
in a whisper :
THE SECRET OF THE SCALES.
205
‘‘ There’s more in this matter, I begin to think,
than appears on the surface. Better not separate
the children, Eileen. Take Joseph with you, at
least for the present. If you find, later on, that
he does not suit you, it will be easy for you to
return him to us.”
So it fell out, that Love, as usual, had her way,
pushing Joseph ahead of her into the family car-
riage ; and Madame and her maid presently
drove off with them to Quebec, Margot mutter-
ing, as she went, in her corner of the coach :
‘‘Well! well! Monsieur St. Antoine never
does things by halves ! He has not only given
back Madame, her daughter, but presented her,
at the same time, with a son ! Grace d M. St.
Antoine ! ”
CHAPTER XV.
A DISCOVERY AND A DILEMMA.
It was well on toward the summer of 1757,
before Brother La Tour could spare Timothy
Grindstone. He had proved himself most useful
to Brother Regis in the work of the Mission
storehouse ; but, when the days began to
lengthen, Father Peter made a long-intended
change.
He sent the honest fellow to oversee the Mis-
sion farm at Bois Blanc. Timothy was glad of
the furlough to green fields, and outdoor work
under the blue skies. Life at the farm would de-
prive him, it was true, of Willy’s constant com-
panionship, and of his frequent intercourse with
Prudence and the girls down the river. But it
was arranged that he was to spend every Sun-
day at Assumption ; and as Willy visited him at
Bois Blanc a couple of times a week, and Pru-
dence and Mary Tarbuki were often sent to the
farm to do the extra washing, scrubbing, milk-
ing and mending. Grindstone had no chance to
grow lonesome in his new quarters.
To help him still further to good spirits, Father
Peter, on one of his visits to the farm, rummaged
206
A DISCOVERY AND A DILEMMA.
207
out of a closet an old violin that had belonged to
a dead lay Brother, and gave it to Timothy.
He had been used to play the fiddle by ear in
the happy, bygone days at Swan Island ; and it
was surprising what a spice of contentment and
good cheer, this gift imparted to the new over-
seer.
He delighted to clean himself up after supper ;
and spent the best part of his evenings, after his
hard day’s work, fiddling away at his old-
fashioned tunes.
Willy was enchanted with the music. He
kept so close to his friend’s elbow, on such occa-
sions, that he scarce had room to draw his bow.
It did the player’s heart good, to see the boy
laugh till the tears ran down his cheeks, when a
couple of the farm-hands danced a jig, as they
sometimes did, on the floor of the big kitchen (or,
as it grew warmer, on the green outside) to the
lively strains of Timothy’s fiddle, in Money Musk^
or Peter^s Street, Those were happy, peaceful
days for the good Grindstone. The first shadow
cast upon them was that of Willy’s departure
with Father Armand to Canada.
The milder weather and a slight improvement
in his condition, at last allowed the sick priest to
travel, by slow stages, to the house of his rest.
Father Eugene being on hand to conduct him
safely thither, it was judged best that Willy (or
208
I.OT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
Joseph, as they called him by his baptismal
name) should go along, also, and the Provincial
approving, be put to college in Quebec.
So, Timothy went over, one beautiful June
day, to the Mission house, and said farewell to his
dear little friend.
Then, he helped Father Peter and Father
Eugene to lift into the wagon and stretch upon a
mattress, the almost helpless form of the
Superior. His eyes grew dim with tears as he
felt on his head the touch of the venerable priest’s
white and wasted hand, and heard his whispered :
‘‘ God reward you, good Timothy, and lead you
soon to the perfect light of Truth ! ”
The wagon was rolling slowly away to the
river-landing, with Willy waving his hand vigor-
ously from the back, before Tim discovered that
he had certain companions in misery.
Prudence Skillet, (whose Christian name was
Martha), was sniffling away at his elbow — too
low in spirits even to quote her favorite texts of
Scripture — while Faith and Hope Leslie (now
Agnes and Helen) sobbed bitterly beside her,
their aprons thrown up, disconsolately, over their
heads.
Father Peter came to the rescue on the spot,
with the merry and wise proposal that Timothy
on the return of the wagon from the landing,
should take Prudence and the little girls back
A DISCOVERY AND A DILEMMA. 209
with him to the farm, and make a holiday of it,
gathering wild flowers for our Lady’s shrine.
The cheerful priest had not finished a decade
of his beads, before the horses. Major and White-
Back, had returned ; and the wagon was rattling
away up the road to Bois Blanc, with Tim and
his friends inside, already much diverted by the
change.
When they reached the farm, Avhich Grind-
stone had quitted at daybreak, he sent Prudence
and the girls at once to the adjacent woods, to
gather the altar-flowers, promising to join them
as soon as he had had a look at the men and the
stables.
He was leading Major and White-Back round
to their stalls, when one of the hands stopped
him for a word.
He was a Yankee captive, named Pringle,
whom Father Armand had redeemed from the
Hurons, for work upon the farm.
“ Stranger in the mare’s stable, sir,” he whis-
pered to Timothy. ‘‘Must’uv slipped in, this
mornin’, when you was takin’ out the beasts.”
“ When did you find him there ? ” asked
Timothy, startled, yet stern.
“Daybreak, when I went in to feed Souris.
He wuz a-lyin’ on his face in the straw. ’Peared
to be drunk or sick-like,” said the man.
Timothy hurried toward the barn, wild vi-
210
LOT Leslie’s eolks.
sions of Caughnewaga spies rushing through his
brain.
‘‘Your axe, Pringle!” he turned back to say
to the other, who carried one : “ and stand ready
to fight for your life, if necessary ! ” he added.
Then, stepping cautiously into the stable, he
came upon the stranger, lying in the straw, al
most at the mare’s feet.
The first look at him gave Timothy to know
that he had nothing to fear from the intruder.
He seemed a small, insignificant creature, in
shabby clothing, threadbare and dust-covered.
His old rusty hat lay beside him, and his
wretched boots were broken and water-logged.
He lay, face downward upon the straw, as
Pringle had described him, and a more forlorn
object for a white man. Grindstone had never
seen.
“ Hi, there ! ” he called, seizing the shabby
shoulder, and shaking it soundly. No answer
came from the living scarecrow ; and Timothy
alarmed at his silence, promptly turned the figure
over on its back.
A strong ray of sunshine from the stable-win-
dow fell full upon the man’s face.
Timothy almost jumped out of his skin at the
sight of it.
“ Bless my heart ! ” he shouted : “ why it’s
Lot Leslie himself! And he looks to be half-
A DISCOVERY AND A DILEMMA
211
dead. Softly, Souris ! Softly, ray girl, or you’ll
step on the poor fellow, and finish him com-
pletely ! ”
The mare turned her bright, intelligent eyes
upon him, whinnying her friendly assurance, that
she meant no harm to the stranger.
And, there was Pringle, in the very nick of
time, ready to fetch a shutter from one of the
barn- windows, and help Timothy to stretch poor
Lot upon it.
In this fashion, they carried him over to the
farmhouse.
Timothy, for a while, almost fancied his old
master to be dead — so ashen, limp, and lifeless
did he appear, when they laid him on the clean,
comfortable bed upstairs.
But, after they had covered him up well with
blankets, and put to his feet stone jugs filled
with boiling water, the warmth revived him
wonderfully. He was soon able to take a smok-
ing draught of liquor, mulled by Timothy : and,
later on, some hot chicken-broth that Prudence
made for him.
For she and the girls had been hurriedly sum-
moned from the woods by Pringle ; and the ex-
citement that followed their arrival at the farm
would be difficult to describe.
Suffice it to say, that it was well their altar-
flowers were gathered in advance ; for no one
21^ LOT LESLIE'S FOLKS.
had time for the rest of that day to do anything
else, save wait upon Lot Leslie — to nurse him,
and cook for him.
The poor man was literally starved and travel-
worn.
He had tramped the country, for weeks, from
the St. Lawrence to the Detroit, with little food
and less shelter — running terrible risks on field
and fiood from wild beasts or prowling savages.
The loss of little Love at Three Rivers, just
when he was sure of carrying her back to New
England, her open aversion to him, and the bitter
reproaches of Wheelwright on his return to the
Golden Lainb^ had almost proved a death-blow
to a constitution never strong, and already under-
mined by many sorrows and hardships.
His journey from the St. Lawrence to the De-
troit, in his weakened condition, had proven a
dreadful experience. Completely exhausted in
body, and broken in spirit. Lot Leslie had crawled,
that morning, into the stable at Bois Blanc, when
Timothy’s back was turned ; and, with his blood
freezing to ice, in that darkest hour before day,
had lain down to die, in the straw at Souris’ feet.
Later on, when he first came out of his dead
faint to a comforting sense of a soft, warm bed
in a neat, sunshiny room : when he looked around
to discover Timothy and Prudence on one side,
and Faith and Hope on the other, while his nos-
A DISCOVERY AND A DILEMMA.
213
trils were regaled with delicious odors of hot
spirits and savory broth — the poor fellow broke
down utterly, and cried like a baby.
But, before evening, though still weak, he had
grown wonderful!}^ chipper. At sunset, Pringle
drove Prudence and the girls back to the settle-
ment, leaving Lot, bolstered up in bed, with a
light in his eyes and a color in his cheek, almost
like those of the old days at home.
Timothy had hard lines of it getting him to
rest, that night. He had so much to tell, so
much to listen to, that sleep seemed out of the
question.
At last, Tim, honest fellow, remembered his
fiddle, and fetching it, played softly on it all the
old-time tunes — full of the sweetness and sadness
of Swan Island days.
The sound of the sea washing on the rocks at
home, the voices of the dead wife and the lost
baby, with murmurs of the salt wind blowing
over the blossoming marshes, seemed to melt into
the simple music, and soothe the poor tired crea-
ture to rest.
He slept, with a peaceful smile upon his lips ;
and Timothy lay down beside him, comforted,
and dreamed happy dreams of Willy and of one
other dear one^ until the dawn of day.
In the course of the morning. Father Peter
came over to the farm, and had a talk with
214
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
Grindstone. Pringle and Prudence had told
him all about the tramp in the stable. Faith and
Hope had coaxed him to let their father stay at
the farm, at least, until he was strong enough to
trudge away elsewhere.
The good priest had a look at Lot, and a chat
with him, alone ; and ended by telling Timothy
to feed him on the best, and clothe him well, and,
as soon as he should be lit for it, to give him
work at the barn.
So, like a storm-tossed bark anchored in a safe
haven, poor Leslie found himself, at last, the
settled inmate of a comfortable home, with
plenty to eat and to wear.
His work was of a kind he understood and
liked ; and it did not distress him, in the least, to
be now forced to take his orders from his former
serving-man.
A just and reasonable master, Timothy proved
himself to be ; and if Lot could have forgotten
that Willy was away in Canada, and little Love,
Heaven alone knew where, among the Indians —
he might have contented himself with his light
tasks about the farm, and looked for nothing
more.
But, a tender-hearted creature, was Lot, and
passing fond of his own. Many a night, when
Timothy touched the bow to his fiddle, and drew
forth the sweet strains of Wandering Willy ^ or
A DISCOVERY AND A DILEM3IA.
215
My love is like the red^ red rose^ the hunger for
his little children burned in him, like a consum-
ing fever, and the big tears rolled down his sal-
low, sunken cheeks.
His two elder girls often came to see him, and
Mary Tarbuki always made him A\relcome to her
lodge ; but plain, commonplace Faith and sickly,
scrawny Hope (who were their father’s feminine
counterpart), could not console him for the ab-
sence of the two bright, handsome little ones —
the pride of his heart — in whom their lost moth-
er’s comeliness lived again.
So it came to pass that, after some months of
peaceful, wholesome labor at Bois Blanc, Lot
gave Timothy to understand that he could con-
tent himself no longer. The keen longing to
seek and recover his lost children was driving
him, day and night (he said) to take to the road,
once more, and tramp his way to Canada.
Grindstone thought it a foolish quest. He
tried to convince Lot that Willy was better off
than he knew — on the fair way, as he was, to be-
come a great scholar ; but Lot’s only answer to
him was: ‘‘You’re not a father, Tim, and you
know nothin’ about the feelin’s of a father ! ” —
which, being the truth, Timothy could say no
more ; and was forced to let him go.
Meantime, Willy and Love were happy as
216
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
lambs at play, in the handsome old house at
Montreal — every hour growing nearer and dearer
to Madame and Margot.
Love had begun to go to the day school of the
Ursuline nuns; and Willy was a pupil at the
Jesuits’ college, not far off, where Father Eugene
arrived from Lorette, in course of time, to teach
one of the classes.
He told Willy that his dear Father Armand
had just died in Quebec; and when the little
fellow turned white as a sheet, and burst into
tears and choking sobs, he spoke so beautifully
to him of the emptiness of all earthly things — of
the glorious reward God reserves for such pure,
heroic souls as his venerable friend’s, that Willy
could not continue to grieve for his loss ; but
labored every day, more and more to profit by
his instructions, and imitate his virtues.
Before Father Eugene had had a chance to
visit Eileen, he received a note from Margot — a
secret, mysterious note which puzzled him greatly.
It read :
Come to Madame^ my mistress^ as soon as yon
can. There is something very wrong with her^
soinething which she hides from her faithful
Margot, Be discreet,^ and hetray me not,'^'^
The children were out at play in the great
sunny garden, and Eileen St. Ange sat alone in
A DISCOVERY AND A DILEMMA. 217
her charming old parlor, when Margot, who had
been on the watch for him, ushered Father
Eugene into her lady’s presence.
It was a beautiful room, rich with furniture of
polished rosewood. There w,^re costly curtains
of velvet, and silken tapestries, wrought by the
dainty fingers of the master’s long-dead ances-
tresses ; and all about the lovely young mistress,
were strewn curios and priceless treasures in
gold and silver, crystal and china, from old
France, heirlooms of the high and ancient family
of St. Ange.
Old-fashioned Sevres bowls filled with roses,
and set here and there on oval, spindle-legged
tables, shed delicious, musky odors on the dim
air.
But Madame, in her black dress and snowy
widow’s cap, looked thinner and paler than when
her uncle had last seen her.
She sat before an antique writing-desk of
ebony and pearl, with a manuscript of parchment
open under her hand. A small, but exquisite,
lamp of hammered brass and amber crystal
burned beside her ivory casket of sealing-wax,
exposed with her ameth3^st crest. Its soft, golden
light brought into relief the dark circles around
her brilliant eyes, and deepened the sad, drooping
lines drawn about the delicate lips.
At the sound of the priest’s entrjq she ran
218
LOT Leslie’s folks.
to him with the open-hearted confidence of a
troubled child, greeting its kind father.
‘^What is it, dear niece?” asked Father
Eugene, as Eileen suddenly burst into tears.
‘‘ I am sorely troubled, my uncle,” she an-
swered, when she could control her voice suffi-
ciently to speak : “ and sadly need your counsel,
although I tremble to seek it. — I have made a
strange and startling discovery.”
The priest remaining silent, she continued :
‘‘ Not long since, whilst searching in this old
desk of Louis’ for a lost account-book, I came un-
expectedly upon this paper” (she laid her jeweled
hand upon the parchment on the desk): “ It is
my husband’s last will and testament.”
The one he executed just after the birth of
your child — leaving you all he possessed ? ”
‘‘No,” she whispered, with white lips : “ one of
later date, of which I was wholly ignorant. He
made it a month after I adopted the stranger
child that N’-o-kum sold to me. This^'^ (again
touching the will), “ save for a small annuity, to
me for life, — leaves house, lands, money — all
he owned, in short, to his nephew and name-
sake in France, the young Louis St. Ange ! ”
Father Eugene knit his brows, and the hot
blood of his Irish forefathers rushed to his cheek.
“ What was his motive for this, think you ? ”
he asked after a pause, full of significance.
A DISCOVERY AND A DILEMMA.
219
Pride of blood, I fear,” she answered. I
knew him to be very sensitive on the score of his
family name ; but I never knew, until now^ how
fiercely he resented my giving it to this outcast
child. He said little at the time : but privately,
he settled the matter in his own aristocratic
fashion.”
“And everything goes to this nephew, abso-
lutely, and at once ? ” questioned the priest.
“ Absolutely — yes ; at once — no. Young Louis
St. Ange is to inherit all — save my pittance —
when he comes of age. That will not be for five
years yet.”
“ Have you submitted the matter to your fam-
ily lawyer ? ” asked Father Eugene, glancing over
the parchment on the desk.
“Yes,” returned Eileen: “but without any
change in the situation. It was he who drew
up the will for my husband. It is perfectly
legal, he assures me : and Mr. St. Ange was of
sound, disposing mind when he made it. The
only flaw in the whole proceeding was his leav-
ing it in this old desk, instead of depositing it for
safe-keeping with his lawyer, or at his banker’s.
That bit of carelessness cost me a terrible temp-
tation.”
She broke down again, and covered her face
with her hands.
“ It would have been so easy to destroy it ! ”
220
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
she whispered : “ I was sorely tempted ; not for
my own sake, but for the children’s, Uncle Eu-
gene. How can I keep them and educate them,
as becomes their position, on the paltry pittance
that will soon be all I can call my own ? ”
‘‘ ^ Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof,’ ”
said the priest quietly. “We have five long-
years in which to consider this question, and
prepare for the worst. God alone knows, my
child, what other changes five years may bring ! ”
“ Mamma ! mamma ! ” screamed little Love,
darting, that moment, into the room, followed by
Willy. “ Hide us, dear little mamma ! Lock the
door — quick ! Don’t let that horrid little man
steal me again ! ”
“AVhat does this mean, my pet?” cried
Madame, clasping her darling to her breast, and
soothing her, as one might soothe a frightened
bird. “ Where is ‘ that horrid little man ’ ? ”
“ At the garden gate,” said Willy, who Avas
calm and grave.
His many strange and sobering experiences
had made the boy precociously old and serious
in his ways.
“ It seems to me,” he pursued, with a musing
hesitation : “ I have seen him someivheres before
— a long time ago. The gate was open. Mari-
anne and I were looking out at a pedlar with his
pack. The first thing Ave kneAv, the man was
A DISCOVERY AND A DILEMMA.
221
staring at us, and pointing his finger, screaming
in English : ‘ There’s my daughter ! That’s my
son ! Come to your father, little Love ! ’ ”
“ That’s what he called me before, when he
and that cross-eyed man stole m6‘in the wagon ! ”
pouted the small girl. He slobbered all over
]ne, saying I was his baby, his little Love ! But
I ain’t — I’m my mamma’s baby, I’m my mamma’s
love ; and I hate that horrid little dirty mendi-
ant ! ”
“ He did look poor,” said Willy, slowly : but
Father Armand told me once that it was a good
thing for one’s soul to be poor. He said our
Lord was poor, and loved and blessed the poor ;
and that it was as hard for a needle to go
through the eye of a camel, as for — as for ”
‘‘You mean as hard for a camel to go through
the eye of a needle,” corrected Father Eugene,
smiling : “ as for a rich man to go through the
gate of heaven.”
“I don’t care,” pouted Love, shaking her
plump shoulders : “ I like to be rich, in spite of
your ‘ camels ’ and your ‘ needles’ eyes,’ what-
ever they are. Please, dear little mamma, send
the steward to the garden' to drive that nasty
man away ! ”
“ Is he still at the gate ? ” asked Eileen in sur-
prise.
“Yes,” answered Willy : “ he said he wouldn’t
222
LOT Leslie’s folks.
go away until he took sister and me with him, if
he had to wait all night for his children.”
Madame and Father Eugene looked steadily
and significantly into each other’s eyes. Then
the priest took up his harrette^ and quitted the
room, saying as he went : “ Keep your soul in
peace, my daughter, while I look into this mat-
ter.” He added gently, as she followed him to
the threshold for a parting word: ‘‘Fenelon
says : ‘ It is better to wait and open the door
with a key, than to break the lock through im-
patience.’ God bless you, Eileen ! — who knows
but what I am about to find the key to your
present difficulty ? Au revoir ! ”
CHAPTER XVI.
IN THE DOUBLE HOUSE AT PHILADELPHIA.
Five years have passed since the events nar-
rated in our last chapter — five years of bloody
incident and startling changes to the French set-
tlers in the colonies, and their Indian allies.
Louisburg, Niagara and Fort du Quesne, arc
in the hands of the English. Quebec has fallen
— adding one of the most picturesque scenes to
this romantic drama of war, and crowning it with
the tragic deaths of Wolfe and Montcalm — and
Canada has surrendered to the British crown.
The Mission of the Assumption at Detroit has
suffered, in its turn, from the devastating ravages
of war. The young braves of the Huron nation,
long since, deserted their lodges and their hunt-
ing-grounds to follow their French brothers to
the battlefields of the north and east.
Returning no more, they have left their places
at the camp-fires to be filled by the old men of
the tribe, by the squaws and little children.
The Mission-forge forsaken : agriculture, hunt-
ing and trading abandoned — the revenues of the
Mission storehouse and the Mission-farm began
223
224
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
to dwindle, scarcely sufficing to furnish cat’s meat
to Brother Fine-Ear, whose noble proportions had
shrunken, and glossy coat roughened with the
hard times.
They no longer afforded a decent salary to our
old friend, Timothy Grindstone. He had grown
sick of war, and of rumors of war, and, at last,
was anxious to settle himself in life.
One pure, sweet hope had been steadily ripen-
ing in his heart for a couple of years. His dream,
by day and night, was of a happy, peaceful home
in the distant City of Brotherly Love, where he
might gather around him the friends he held
most dear, and rest content under the shadow of
his own vine and fig-tree, far removed from the
din of bloody battle.
He delayed no longer to become a member of
the holy Catholic Church, to which he had in-
clined since the day he heard his first Mass in the
Mission church of the Assumption.
There, Father Peter instructed and baptized
iiiin ; and, the year before Major Rogers and his
gallant Rangers sailed into the mouth of the De-
troit to demand the surrender of the Fort, and
while Pontiac, chief of the Ottawas, was plajdng
fast and loose with both French and English,
— Timothy said farewell to Bois Blanc, and jour-
neyed down alone to the city of Penn.
A happy accident, here, won him the favor of
m THE DOUBLE HOUSE.
225
an eccentric old Quaker lady — Mistress Dorothy
Pemberton, a rich widow without chick or child.
She engaged him first as her coachman, and
later on, as a sort of steward, or general-utility-
man, on her handsome farm 6‘n Walnut street,
not far from the banks of the Delaware river —
then, a rural quarter of Philadelphia, filled with
the homesteads of the wealthy Friends.
To the south, lay the Bettering House (or re-
treat for poor Friends) and the old Quaker Alms-
house (since made famous by Longfellow) — which
then stood, as he says :
“ — in the suburbs, in the midst of meadows and woodlands.”
Between these two buildings, was what Tim-
othy’s mistress called the Popish Mass-house,”
where the honest fellow soon found strength and
comfort for his soul.
Father Eobert Harding was the pastor at that
date, (assisted by the German missionary. Father
Steinmeier or Farmer) ; and his chapel of St.
Joseph, newly-built, was then only five years old.
It was an oblong structure, sixty by forty feet,
rough-cast and pebble-dashed, with an arched
ceiling, and no galleries, save a small organ loft.
There were only about eight windows in all —
but they shed light enough to reveal the beauties
of two fine pictures in oil, that hung upon the
homely walls — those of St. Ignatius and St.
226
LOT Leslie’s folks.
Francis of Assissi, which had been sent from
Europe to the first pastor of St. Joseph’s.
Timothy liked best, however, the splendid
painting of the Holy Family, that hung over the
one little altar of the chapel — the work of the
Philadelphia artist, Benjamin West, although
executed in Eome.
Humble as was this little house of God, Tim-
othy often knelt there at the Communion-rail,
side by side with the grand foreign ambassadors,
whose stately mansions were located south and
west of the church, and who, with their large
retinues of attaches and servants worshipped reg-
ularly at St. Joseph’s.
There, he saw the son of Lionell Brittin, the
first (known) Philadelphia convert to Catholicity,
and his father’s freed slaves, Qiian and Dinah}
And there, too, he met numbers of the poor Aca-
dians who, through the kindness of Mr. Benezet,
were then living in their small, wooden, one-story
huts on the north side of Pine street, between
Fifth and Sixth streets. A timid, forlorn lot,
they were.
In his free time, and of evenings, Timothy
went for a little schooling to Magnus Falconer,
the schoolmaster, who kept at Randal Yetton’s,
a goldsmith, opposite Gray’s Alley, Front street.
Fourth street was then the westernmost boun-
1 See Griffin’s Am. Cath. His. Researches, April, 1899.
IX THE DOUBLE HOUSE.
227
dary of Philadelphia. It was, what its founder,
Penn, had desired it to be — ‘^a green country
town”; and Father Greaton, the first pastor of
St. Joseph’s, has recorded that he saw there, on
all sides, ‘‘gardens paled, and^orchards here and
there.” ^ The roads in the neighborhood of
Third and Walnut streets, (now so well-graded
and closely -built), were then only “narrow cart-
ways ascending deep defiles, and causing foot-
passengers to walk high above them, on the sides
of the shelving banks.” ^
After Mass or Vespers on Sundays, Timothy
often strolled, under the spreading walnut and
buttonwood trees, to the great Pond, then to be
seen at Fourth and Market streets, the “proper
head of Dock creek,” (now Dock street), where
the ducks sailed peacefully to and fro, viewing
their charms in their clear, watery mirror. He
longed for Willy at such times. He even caught
a fish, now and again, of a holiday, in the spring
back of Fourth street, to the northwest, when
the silvery-backed creatures came up the creek at
high tide.
He was contented in his quiet home at Doro-
thy Pemberton’s. The old Quakeress soon found
her prejudices against “ Papists ” giving way be-
fore the sound sense and good example of her
favorite serving-man. Timothy was a keen-wit-
^ See Griffin’s Am. Cath. His. Researches, April, 1899. 2 Ibid,
228
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
ted Yankee, well-instructed in his religion, and
wonderfully posted on a number of knotty points,
by his years of close contact with educated and
intelligent Catholics.
He was able to answer the old lady’s questions
as to his faith, with clearness and excellent logic ;
and she found him so brave and truthful, so hon-
est, and conscientiously devoted to her interests
in the smallest details, that she ended by con-
ceiving a high esteem for her man and his religion.
Meantime, poor Timothy was beginning to have
many a lonely hour, many a yearning thought of
his old friends, the Leslies.
It was a time when, owing to several grave
causes, it was almost impossible for people to
communicate with their dear ones at a distance.
Letters were hard to write — at least, for such as
Timothy and his beloved Swan Islanders — and,
in that troublous period, still harder to send, or
have delivered at their destination.
Willy had written once from Montreal, tell-
ing of his meeting with his father at Madame
St. Ange’s garden-gate. And Timothy was con-
tented, for the time, to know that his dear boy
was well and happy ; and that Lot had gone
back to service with Jean Martin, the baker.
As to Prudence and the girls, he had left them,
to all appearances, safely settled with Mary and
Catharine Tarbuki ; and he knew nothing, as yet,
m THE DOUBLE HOUSE.
229
of the sad mishap that had befallen them, a month
after his departure.
A chance spark in the night, kindled by the
blind grandmother to light her pipe, had set fire
to the old squaw’s clothing.
Before day -dawn, the lodge was burned to the
ground (with many of the adjoining huts), and
poor old Anne Why-washi-brooch^ in spite of the
heroic efforts of her daughter and grandchild,
perished in the flames.
In their homeless affliction, Mary and Cathar-
ine hurried with their three white slaves to their
best friend and sole earthly adviser — Father
Peter, at Assumption Mission.
He received them with the sympathy and lov-
ing interest of a true father.
While Mary and Catharine stood before him
in their dark, gentle beauty, and told their sad
story in simple words, without excitement or
emphasis, the good priest sat at his desk, and
carefully studied the situation.
Just at that time, there were weighing on his
mind other matters of still graver, and more
terrible import.
The evening previous, he had entertained at
supper, one Avho was known as the Irish Mo-
hawk chief,” the famous Sir William Johnson.
Colonel Duquesne and Major La Motte had
been present, as well as Pierre Meloche, the
230
LOT leslip:’s folks.
miller, Charles Parant, his relative, P)elleperche,
Beaiifait, and de Bondie. But Meloclie had lin-
gered after all the other guests, for a secret word
with Father Peter.
The Jesuit’s dark cheek had paled — his calm
eyes had dilated, as the miller whispered in his
ear :
‘^Tell Major Gladwin to beware of Pontiac
and his men ! ”
And when the priest had questioned further,
Meloche admitted :
‘‘ The Ottawas are planning an immediate at-
tack on the fort. If successful, it will prove a
bloody massacre ! ”
How to communicate this well-accredited warn-
ing to the commandant, without betrajdng its
source — had been the subject of Father Peter’s
anxious thoughts for many sleepless hours, when
Omi-Mee and her homeless ones came, at the
dawn, to consult him.
But, with the characteristic self-control of the
missionary, he immediately bent all the powers
of his wise and keen mind to the adjustment of
their future.
A bright thought flashed upon him.
On his desk, that moment, lay a letter, just
fetched him by a Huron runner from Montreal.
It was from the Superioress of a convent, well-
known to him there. In it, she besought him to
IN THE DOUBLE HOUSE.
231
send her, if possible, some good, pious women,
either white or Indian, whom he might deem
suitable to serve as lay Sisters in her house.
He had long recognized and admired the heroic
virtues of Mary and Catharine ‘Tarbuki. lie was
thoroughly acquainted with the heavenly secrets
of their holy, interior life. They had often ex-
pressed to him their burning desire to become
nuns — to consecrate themselves entirely to God,
in the humblest convent-home that would be
willing to receive them.
God Himself, by this unexpected severing of
all their earthly ties, seemed now to open the
way for them to their long-desired end.
It was beautiful to see their dark faces glow,
and their soft ej^es sparkle, as Father Peter told
tliem of the blessed refuge, heaven had prepared
for them in this gloomy hour of their bitterest
desolation.
We will go at once to the house of the Lord,
if our Father will permit us,” said Omi-Mee^ with
quiet decision.
“ And I, forsooth, will go with you,” said Pru-
dence, abruptly. It’s better to be an abject in
the house of the Lord, than dwell in the taber-
nacles of sinners.’ I’m sorry stuff for the making
of a nun, you may be thinking. Father Peter,
but mayhap, God will give me the grace to end
my life in peace among these holy women.”
232
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
“ O, Patience ! ” cried little Hope, fretfullj" :
“you’ll not go away, and leave 'me behind ? I’ll
be frightened to death without you,” and she
burst into tears.
“ Helen might go with 3"ou,” said Father Peter,
calling Hope b}" her baptismal name. “Don’t
cry, child ; the nuns, I am sure, will receive 3^ou
into their school. It will be a good opportunity
to secure your education. But, Agnes — ” he
added, looking kindly at Faith Leslie, who had
grown into a neat, well-made girl of eighteen,
with a quiet, modest face : “ I think Agnes had
better not go at present to Montreal.”
Faith blushed, and lowered her pleasant eyes.
“ I met Madame Belleperche, this morning, as
we were coming here,” she faltered. “She was
very kind. She says she needs a maid. If you
think I would suit her. Father ?” and again
she hesitated.
The priest brought his long, slender hands to-
gether with a resounding clap.
“Very good ! ” he exclaimed with a funny em-
phasis : “ very well ! Just the thing ! Madame,
votre marraine^ will make a kind, patient mis-
tress, and Agnes, an excellent maid. Oh ! we
shall all take care of Agnes, you may be sure, all
take the very best care of our little Agnes ! As
for the rest of you” (turning to the others):
“ Madame, the Superior has sent me a draft for
IN THE DOUBLE HOUSE. 233
your journey. The Indian runner waits to guide
you on your way.”
The women and girls fell upon their knees, as
he raised his hand in benediction, but he was
fatherly and practical to the l^^t.
Off to the kitchen, now,” he cried, as he
finished the sign of the cross, and turned back
with a sigh to his other weighty and unsolved
difficulties.
‘‘ Get you all a good dinner from Brother Ig-
natius. Then, away with you, this very after-
noon, to Montreal. I’ll make you ready a letter
for the Reverend Mother. Pray for me, and be-
gin to be saints ! ”
Two or three months later. Lot Leslie was in
the baker-shop of Jean Martin, waiting upon a
customer, when a ragged boy brought him a
three-corned note.
It was a queer specimen of Avriting and spell-
ing ; but when Lot, after long and severe study,
had made it out, it gave him a wonderful shock
to read words that meant to say :
There are four of us, here, at the convent in
Notre Dame street, Mary and Catharine Tar-
bucket, your daughter Hope and myself. ^ I am
tossed top and down like the locust. My knees are
weak through fasting,^ and my flesh faUeth of fat-
234
LOT LESLlE^S FOLKS.
ness,^ Come, see me, and you’ll hear all the
news from your old friend,
‘^Prudence Martha Skillet.”
At his dinner-hour. Lot made haste to find the
convent in Notre Dame street. It was a large,
grey, prison-like building. He trembled consid-
erably when he was shown by the portress into
the little bare parlor with its whitewashed
walls, its plaster Madonna, and great, solemn
crucifix.
After a long wait — and the far-off ringing of a
great bell that struck terror to his soul — the door
opened, and Prudence Martha Skillet came in.
Lot scarcely knew her.
Always thin and raw-boned, her flesh had in-
deed, (as her note had said), failed of its fatness.
But Leslie had never seen her look as nicelj^, or
act as genteelly.
She had a good, wholesome face. Her plain,
black dress was neat and close fitting, with its
black cape and snowy collar. She wore a white
linen apron that fairly shone from the iron ; and
her hair was done up smoothly under a very be-
coming cap of black net.
Her joy at meeting Lot was so extreme, so un-
affected, that the poor fellow was quite overcome
by it.
He began to regard her in a new light, as she
IN THE DOUBLE HOUSE.
235
sat before him, looking quite the lady in the
high-bred simplicity of her convent-clothes ; and
he listened eagerly to all the news of his dear
ones that she poured forth, with a torrent of
Scripture that seemed the sole remnant of her
old personality.
Mary and Catharine, (she told him), were
happy as the day was long in their new life, and
would soon get the habit. Even Hope was very
well content, and making good use of her time
in the nuns’ school.
As for herself — (here Prudence drew a wry
face, and made a queer gesture of despair with
her bony hands), she feared she was never cut
out for a lay Sister, or any other sort of a Sister.
She had become, according to her own account,
“like a pelican of the wilderness,” like “a night
raven in the house,” like “ a solitary sparrow on
the house-top.”
“ ‘ I am afflicted and humbled exceedingly,’ ”
she went on to say, with king David : “ ‘ I have
turned in my anguish while the thorn is fastened
— ’ ” and then to Lot’s surprise and dismay, she
burst into a mighty flood of tears.
He made some awkward efforts to console her;
but his concern and embarrassment were still
further increased, when she sprang to her feet,
and extended her hands to him, sobbing wildly :
“ Take me out of this. Lot Leslie, take me out
236
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
of this, I beg of you ! I’m not fit for it, any
more than I’m fit to be the queen of England
herself ! ”
There’s only one way to take you out — that I
can think of- — ” stammered Leslie, scratching his
head, wherein had dawned a sudden inspiration :
‘‘Jean Martin (that’s the baker), he’s bin a-nag-
gin’ at me to marry agin. They want a woman
to help in the kitchen, as my poor missus used
to. A couple’s better nor single help. They’ve
a nice lot of rooms over the stable and — and —
hang it all ! ” — he blurted, in conclusion, wiping
the perspiration from his face with his coat
sleeve: “I never was a man of many words.
To make a short story of it — Prudy, will you be
my wife ? ”
Miss Skillet turned scarlet, clean up to the
crimped border of her convent-cap. She glared
about her with a startled look, as if the very
walls must blush at the profanation of a mar-
riage-proposal within their virgin-bounds.
Then, her eyes fell before Lot’s, regarding her
with open admiration, yet humble diffidence — a
pleading glance, that made her feel very queer,
and (strange to say), exceedingly happy.
“ This is very sudden,” she said at last, timidly,
bashfully — in short, quite unlike her ordinary
bustling, energetic fashion : “ you do me a great
honor ; but, if you think I’ll suit ? ”
m THE DOUBLE HOUSE. 237
‘‘ ‘ Suit ’ ? ” echoed Lot in an ecstasy : ‘ suit ’ ?
Well, I swan! Talk about yer ^ pelicans ’ and
yer ^night-hawks ’ and yer ^solitary sparrers on
the house-top’ — I declare to gracious, I never
know’d till this minnit what a mizzable, lone-
some, fersaken creetur l'’ve bin, ever sense my
poor missus turn’d round and died ! Come along,
Prudy, my old gal ! Wow or never, we’ll make a
match of it, or my name ain’t Lot Leslie ! ”
‘‘Hold a little, master,” said Prudence, still
blushing, and twisting her apron-string around
her finger, like bashful sixteen : “ you see, I’m a
Konian Cath’lic now. And you ainH, Might
as well be said, first as last, — I can’t marry you,
at all, unless the priest ties the knot.”
. “ Sure and sartin, the priest shall tie the
knot,” cried Leslie, cordiallj^ : “ I don’t mind tellin’
you, I’m half a Papist myself, already. I give
you leave to make a hull one outen me, sweet-
heart, if you’ll only marry me, this blessed day ! ”
Thereupon, Miss Skillet slipped away to hunt
up Hope, her future stepdaughter, and to tell
her surprising bit of news to the Reverend
Mother Superior.
That wise nun smiled benignly on the bride-
elect, (having been thoroughly convinced from
the start of her unfitness for the cloister) ; but
reminded her of the marriage banns that must be
put up, and of other little j^reliminaries that
238
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
must be attended to, before she and Lot could be
made one flesh.
The upshot of it all was, that a week later,
with Jean Martin and his wife, in their best, for
witnesses, and Hope as maid of honor, the happy
couple went to the rectorevie of the Catholic
church where little Love had been baptized.
There, the same priest who had christened the
child, and afterward, given the last Sacraments
to Mistress Lot Leslie, (number one), administered
the nuptial rite to Mistress Lot Leslie (number
two) and her delighted spouse.
Then, Hope went back to her school, rejoicing
in a pretty dress and a box of sweetmeats ; while
Lot, and his sturdy ^‘missus,” trudged off to begin
a new life together in Jean Martin’s comfortable
annex, as happy as two sparrows nest-keeping in
a summer grove.
One of Leslie’s first acts, after that, was to
write Timothy Grindstone a full account of the
wedding, which he. sent south by a trust}^ mes-
senger.
The war was raging at the time, however, and
Tim’s answer was long in coming.
A wonderful letter it was, when it did come.
Timothy was a rich man.
Dorothy Pemberton had grown, day by day,
more and more attached to her steward, treating
him, at last, less like a servitor than a son. He
IN THE DOUBLE HOUSE.
239
had helped to nurse the old Quakeress, through a
long and trying illness. No one, save Timothy,
could support her up and down the broad old
staircase of oak. No one, save Timothy, could
carry her comfortably out into the wide, sunny
garden, — where she lay for hours, daily, in her
reclining chair among the flowers and bees, and
where she died quietly, one day, leaving Timothy
Grindstone (God bless her !) everything she pos-
sessed. He was now the owner of a splendid
farm and homestead — of extensive stock and
lands.
The house was a large, double mansion, simply
but handsomely furnished, and with beautiful
upper and lower balconies. He had room in it
for all his old friends. ‘‘ Come on, master, with
your wife and little Hope,” he wrote to Lot.
One wing of my double house is yours. It has
been my dream for years. Life is too short, at
best, for dear friends to be long parted. Let us
spend the rest of our days together.”
Having dispatched his letter to Montreal (thanks
to Magnus Falconer, it was easier writing now,
than in the days when he travelled Avith poor
Alexander, the trader), Timothy dressed himself in
his Sunday clothes, and started on a long-promised
trip to the Assumption Mission. He had more to
say to Father Peter, and to one of Father Peter’s
parishioners, than he could have written in a^ear.
240
LOT LESLIE’S FOLKS.
He was not absent from Pennsylvania many
days ; but he attended to a great deal of business
in a short space of time.
When he returned to his lovely homestead, he
lifted out of his light vehicle, a young, blushing
lady in white, whom he introduced to Pringle,
his overseer, as Mistress Timothy Grindstone !
And Pringle thought it a very pretty sight to
see his master escorting his bride, at once, over
the farm, showing her not only the flower beds
and the beehives in the garden, but taking her
to see even the cows and horses, the pigs and the
poultry, the stables, and the dairy.
And when, after a while, they strolled under
the great walnut trees, into the fine old house,
and roamed, hand in hand, through Dorothy
Pemberton’s many beautiful rooms, chatting,
laughing, and planning, like a couple of spring
birds, nest-building, Timothy was heard exclaim-
ing in loud, cheery tones :
God bless thee. Faith, my love ! ’Twas a
lucky day, after all — wasn’t it? — when the
savages drove us out from the old home on Swan
Island ! ”
As the pleasant summer days drew on, they
began to watch daily for the coming of the
travellers from Montreal.
At last, one lovely June day when Faith sat
knitting on the broad old balcony, looking al-
m THE DOUBLE HOUSE.
241
most pretty in her wedding-dress of white muslin
and blue ribbons, (given her by her Marraine Belle-
perche), — while Timothy, in yellow nankeen and
brass buttons, fussed about, close at hand, among
the vines and flower beds, the Grindstone team
turned a corner of the road, covered with foam,
and Pringle, merrily cracking his whip, brought
the family coach to the door, loaded with pas-
sengers.
First of all, tumbled out Master and Mistress
Lot and, (wonderful to relate ! ) their baby,
Timothy ; next, Hope, looking quite the grown-
up maiden in her first long gown ; and then — and
then — to the great surprise and delight of Tim and
his wife, a dazzlingly beautiful girl and a tall, hand-
some boy, who were introduced by Lot, with a
loud flourish of trumpets, as : My daughter.
Love Marianne, and my son, Wilson Joseph
Leslie!”
There was so much noise and confusion at the
outset, — so much to tell, and so much to hear,
that it was a long while before Tim and Faith
could make out the cause of the unexpected com-
ing of Willy and Love.
Truth to say, the children looked out of place
among their homely relatives, and amid such
simple surroundings. And, while he was ponder-
ing this, Timothy learned, for the first time, of
St. Ange’s second will, and of the change it had
242
LOT Leslie’s folks.
wrought in the lives of Madame and her adopted
children.
The five closing years of his minority having
elapsed, young Louis St. Ange had just arrived
from France to claim the estate of his deceased
uncle.
Whilst matters had remained in her own con-
trol, Madame had dealt nobly by Willy and Love.
She had managed to deposit at her banker’s, a
substantial sum to their credit ; and then, feeling
a call to a higher life, and realizing that it was a
cruel thing to keep the children longer from their
own, (with whom there was now no risk of perver-
sion, or damage to the little ones’ souls) — she had
retired to the convent where Mary and Catharine
Tarbuki had just made their solemn vows of pro-
fession : and proposed to spend there the residue
of her days.
Love had been very averse to this arrange-
ment. Being a spoiled and worldly-minded little
damsel, she had been very unwilling to return to
her father, and renounce the elegant life of the
St. Ange mansion.
This fact convinced Eileen that the little girl
singularly needed the discipline before her. At
parting, Madame spoke to her so wisely and ten-
derlj^, and showed her so clearly, that the high-
est aristocracy is that of the faithful children of
God — that the best riches are those of a meek,
IN THE DOUBLE HOUSE.
243
humble, unselfish heart ; and that no beauty of
face or form is as lovely or as lasting as that
which springs from a pure and pious soul — that
Love promised her, with tears, to accept, as pa-
tiently as she could, her new‘ life in a lowlier
sphere, and to strive with all her powers to
please God, and do His holy Will, among her
commonplace relations.
Faithfully, did she keep her childish promise.
Though many a time, she failed through weak-
ness ; though, again and again, her spirit grew
sore and chafed under her tedious task, and amid
uncongenial surroundings — with the help of God
and our Lady, and the blessing of St. Anthony (to
whom she had been consecrated in the Mission-
scales at Lorette), she struggled bravely on —
ripening, at last, into one of those rare creatures
who quite forget themselves for others — into a
noble, useful woman, whose soul was as beauti-
ful as her face.
When she had become the joy of her house-
hold, and the support and comfort of all within
the circle of her influence, young Louis St. Ange
came to her from Montreal with a message from
his aunt.
Madame had corresponded with her favorite
through her years of trial, and helped her in her
struggle against self.
She had shown Louis, (in his visits to the con-
244
LOT Leslie’s folks.
vent), all those beautiful, humble letters from
Love, which reflected, like clear mirrors, the
pure, generous soul of the girl. And now, when
that excellent young man had grown to appreci-
ate and love her adopted daughter, Eileen sent
him to her to ask her to be his bride.
His wooing, under such happy auspices, was a
short and successful one. All agreed that so hand-
some and amiable a pair of Christian lovers
seemed made for one another ; and soon, there
was a charming wedding in the old double house
in Philadelphia.
The marriage of Louis St. Ange and Marianne
Love Leslie took place at a nuptial Mass in the
new St. Mary’s church, on Fourth street above
Spruce, then recently builded by the Kev. liobert
Harding.
The French ambassador and his suite were
present at the ceremony ; but none of those
courtly grandees were prouder or happier, on the
occasion, than the bride’s own dear honest rela-
tives, all in their best, in the front pews.
There were Lot and Prudence with their two
young children: Timothy and Faith, with their
three little Grindstones.
Hope, in white muslin and wild roses, was the
slender, modest bridesmaid, and Willy, with his
white satin favor in his buttonhole, the gentle-
manly groomsman.
IN THE DOUBLE HOUSE.
245
Tall, dark, and distinguished was the young
Frenchman, Louis St. Ange, and beside him, the
bride looked fair and lovely as an angel in her
rich dress of ivory-tinted satin and her trailing
veil of rare old lace — Madame’s own wedding-
dress and veil ; — and when Love and Louis jour-
neyed home to Montreal, after the merry mar-
riage-breakfast at the farm — Willy, their brother,
went with them. FTot to abide with them, how-
ever, in the stately St. Ange mansion, where
Love was to rule, thenceforth, as the second
Madame St. Ange — reigning as a mistress where
she had begged shelter as a child — but to enter
the college directed by Father Eugene O’Con-
nell, and there, at Timothy’s expense, to begin
his studies for the priesthood.
All the golden threads of our story being thus
gathered up — all the tangled ends smoothed out,
and the holy dead sleeping in their consecrated
graves — we seem to see the Angel of God’s Will,
in the simple farmhouse at Philadelphia, as in
the rich mansion, and hallowed Seminary in
Montreal, waving his shining wings over our
dear Swan Islanders, and shedding his priceless
benedictions upon the lives and destinies of those
friends, high or lowly, old or young, whom we
have known in this eventful narrative, as
^‘Lot Leslie’s Folks.”
An Afterword with the Reader.
If the woof of this little tale be partly of fic-
tion— its warp is mainly of fact.
Improbable as may seem its plot — unreal or
exaggerated its personnel, the story of Lot
Leslie’s Folks is based upon records of unde-
niable authenticity.
It is certain, that a white family, closely re-
sembling the Leslies in all material points, was
captured by the Indians on an island, off the
coast of Maine, in the summer of 1755.
The father and mother were sold to Canadians
— the first, to a baker ; whilst the youngest girl,
a baby, was purchased from the Indians, and
adopted by a Madame St. Auge, wife of a rich
merchant of Montreal, whose only daughter had
then recently died.
Little Love Leslie (or Eleanor St. Auge, as she
was christened in the Catholic church in Mon-
treal), is really a creature of flesh and blood.
Her brother Joseph, a captive in the St. Francois
tribe, was also adopted, later on, by the St. Auges.
Love was stolen from her adopted parents (as
we have narrated) by an agent from New Eng-
land— was recaptured by the Indians, and taken
by them to the St. Fran9ois Mission. Eventually,
she was returned, for a ransom, to Madame St.
246
AN AFTERWORD.
247
Auge, who had her carefully educated in the con-
vents of the Ursulines, both in Montreal and
Quebec. While we admit that some small liber-
ties have been taken in our story with the unities
of time, place, and person, we respectfully chal-
lenge the critic to prove that 6ertain curious and
thrilling experiences of the Leslies and their
servants, therein set forth, have not their paral-
lels in genuine colonial narratives of Captivi-
ties among the savages in the eighteenth cen-
tury— which, by the way, in vivid coloring and
dramatic incident, usually read more like ro-
mance, than sober reality.
The names of Lot Leslie^ s Folks may not be
actually recorded in the Diary (or Lime de
Compte) of Pere Pierre Potier S. J. — still extant,
as Mr. Richard Elliott tells us,^ in the archives of
St. Mary’s College, Montreal.
Nevertheless, in their simple faith and purity
of life, they are worthy to live, with others of
their kind, in tic e fairest pages of our Church-
history in pre-E evolutionary days — in the annals
of those earP religious Missions, of whose
blessed precinc ^s, it may be truly said :
“ You lever tread upon them, but you set
You: leet upon some ancient history.”
— The Author.
1 Last of the Hu 'on Mission, m Amer. Cath. Quarterly Re-
view, to which the writer is much 'ndebted.
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